


He Wasn't There Again Today

by Yasminke



Series: Future Conditional [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Explicit Language, F/M, Noncanonical Character Death, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-07
Updated: 2012-12-02
Packaged: 2017-11-15 19:29:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 36,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/530875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yasminke/pseuds/Yasminke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean are chasing an old-fashioned demonic surge: electrical storms, crop circles, cows being tossed and not a tornado in sight. What started out as a typical hunt, soon turns into anything but. An archangel is murdered, a prophet goes into hiding, a demonic conspiracy is unearthed, and Sam is spirited away to who knows when. Dean is left alone to guard the prophet while searching for Sam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is for phoenixdragon, who has encouraged it more than it deserves. Thanks, dollface. I will be attempting to post a chapter per week, provided the stupid vertigo stays at a minimum. 
> 
> Unless I can't control my verbosity either, this looks like it will be 7 chapters (+prologue). That's the plan, anyway.

**Tonopah, Nevada: Friday, October 28, 2016**

 

He was bored, bordering on agitated. They went through the same routine, with very little variation, every week. He looked at the woman sitting across from him, in her pale blue dress, her greying blonde hair pulled back as usual, bangs swept to the side. She held her pen in her left hand, poised just over her legal pad, ready to write down anything of interest.

Except he hadn’t said anything of interest in four months.

“How was work? Still enjoying fact-checking for the newspaper?”

“It’s interesting,” he responded, fingering the message Agnes had taken down for him earlier in the day. “Hasn’t yielded anything of help, though.”

“No more glimpses?”

He thought carefully about his answer. Ever since he’d woken up in the hospital bed, his identity had consisted of foggy memories that he wasn’t sure were his own. Scary, bordering on heart-stopping terrifying, they were more often than not just flashes of fire, blood and tears. When he’d first told Dr. Benson about the nightmares, he knew immediately from the look she’d given him that she would notify the authorities the moment he left. Nothing had come of it, except for a look of bemused curiosity from the Sheriff, but since then he hadn’t shared his nightmares with her.

“Nothing new. Nothing helpful,” he admitted. “Sometimes I doubt my name.”

“We all do, at times,” she responded. “You ready for this, then?”

“Yeah,” he said nodding and getting situated on the couch. “Can’t hurt, right?”

“Just remember what we talked about. If you start to show signs of distress, I’ll pull you out. Comfortable?”

He nodded and closed his eyes. He listened to her voice, to her instructions, felt his mind float into the ether. And then it began again. 

“Tell me what you see,” he heard her say, her voice muffled, distant.

“Two children in the back of a car, fighting. No, teasing each other. Shoving toys into the ashtray. Guess it’s an old car,” he began, the grey of cloudy memories pulling him under. “Wait, she’s hurt. I can smell fire.”

“The memory can’t hurt you,” he heard her remind him. “Talk through it.”

He felt himself nod in acknowledgement. “She’s bleeding. I can see her pain. She’s on fire, b-b-but now it’s someone different.”

The greyness grew stronger. He related the flashes, as they pierced through that all-consuming greyness. He heard the sounds of encouragement Dr. Benson mumbled as he narrated the events that ate away at him every night. Events for which he felt guilty, but for which he could find no concrete evidence, no matter how much research he did. The closest he came were some tawdry novels he’d found at a garage sale, written by some guy named Carver Edlund: one about bugs and one about a ridiculous plague. Casandra, at the newspaper, had laughed and suggested that maybe he or his wife had read the books and that they were actually the source of his memories.

But not every flash of a memory could be found in the novels’ descriptions and reviews on Amazon. The worst ones — being locked in a cage, a man’s head exploding into a tar-like goo, a soul-crushing announcement that he was all alone — weren’t in any of the blurbs. Nor was the memory he could feel approaching. He could sense it — the air grew warmer, more humid, stiller — and see it — in the distance he could see a tornado approaching, sucking up the grey and replacing it with a terrifying blackness, similar to the pitch-black of his nightmares.

Suddenly, he felt a hand around his throat, painfully cutting off his ability to breathe. He was standing behind a building with four doors, windows blown out of three units. In the dumpsters behind him was a child’s bicycle, its training wheels folded against the back wheel. A tall man, with eyes the color of that approaching tornado had a hand around his throat. He felt his feet leave the ground and heard his own voice wheeze out the word, “Christo.”

“Was that a name?” he heard Dr. Benson ask.

“Well, well,” the man, finely dressed in the double-breasted, blue pin-stripe suit had said. “I was hoping you’d show up here. Makes it so much easier than tracking you down.”

“What did you say?” he heard the psychiatrist ask. But the cyclone of darkness was spiraling toward him, sucking the air out of his lungs.

“I can’t hear you,” the man’d replied then cocked his head. “Tsk, tsk, I would never kill you. That would be counterproductive.” He felt his feet touch the ground momentarily as he was pulled closer to his tormentor. “You asked, begged to go back in time, to get away from it all, forget about your life. Can’t turn back time, but I _can_ make you forget —“

“Two, three,” he heard the psychiatrist count. “Open your eyes. You’re safe in my office.”

He blinked and looked up at the white tiles, speckled with gold, then sat up. Sighing, he swung his legs around, putting his feet firmly on the dove grey carpet. He swiped a hand down his face.

“Nothing new,” he said, rhetorically.

“No. I’m afraid not, Sam.” Dr. Benson smiled, that thin, tense smile she gave him every week. “But at least you can walk through the nightmares without screaming now.”

He rose, sticking his hand in his pocket to finger the memo. “I won’t be able to make it next week, Dr. Benson.” He watched as she stopped writing and looked up to inspect his expression. 

“I have an appointment with a psychic.”


	2. Chapter 2

**March 2014**

 

A bundle of color slid down the stairs and bounded across the living room. “Mommy?”

Sadhana Miller closed her laptop, taking a break from her application for the promotion of project manager, and put on her “not stressed out mommy” face. Her four-year old, Roshani, had taken to dressing herself to suit her daily chosen titles. Yesterday, she had declared herself a teddy bear farmer. Today was easier: she wore variations of orange speckled with green, brown boots pulled up over bright orange leggings. Her deep chocolate brown hair was tucked into an orange woollen hat, the knitted jack-o-lantern face glaring out at the world from above her right ear. 

Sadhana hoped it was easier. The look of dismay that would greet her if she got it wrong…

“Yes, pumpkin?”

“Pie. I’m pumpkin pie, cause it’s very yummy. Can we have some for dinner?”

“No, dear,” Sadhana said, biting back the chuckle. “We don’t have the ingredients.”

Roshani’s expression fell. Momentarily. When she caught a glimpse of the sheet of lavender paper lying on the table next to her _My Little Pony_ coloring book, the mischievous twinkle in the hazel-green eyes came back. Once the stationery had been scented, but now, it was just colored paper. But it was Roshani’s favorite and they saved it for special occasions.

“That a note?” she asked. 

“Yes, honey.” Sadhana reread the message she had written earlier in the day: “‘Be at the Perkins Bakery and Restaurant, 1171 West 23rd Street, in Lawrence, Kansas on the first of November, 2016, eleven in the morning. Everything will get better from then on.’”

“You write pretty,” the little girl said, then pointed at the blank envelope. “Are you gonna make the ‘velope too?”

“Can’t address it, pumpkin pie.”

“Why not, mommy?” Roshani looked at her mother again, a frown creasing the space between her fine, gently arched eyebrows. 

“To send the note, we have to know this man’s address.”

“Ohhh,” Roshani said, slowly, as if she understood. “Maybe the angels can take it to him.”

Sadhana pretended to mull over the idea, then said, “Well, if the angels know where he’ll be, then they can deliver it.”

Roshani nodded, once, sharply: her sign of total agreement. She straightened her woollen cap. “‘Kay, mommy. Can I go next door?”

“Were you invited? You shouldn’t bother him.”

“I’m ‘possed to help with a secret project for you,” Roshani said and put her finger to her mouth. “Shhhh. It’s secret. You come get me when you are bored being alone, ‘kay?”

Sadhana tugged on her lower lip, took a deep breath, and said, “Okay, honey. I’ll start dinner and come get you when it’s ready.” She rose, walked around the table into the kitchen, and went to open the refrigerator.

“Burgers, mommy!” Roshani screamed and raced toward the front door. 

When Sadhana turned around to remind her she’d asked for macaroni and cheese the previous night, the note and envelope were gone.

~*~

Sadhana wanted nothing more than to take off her heels and soak her feet, enjoy a cold beer while she ate some of her left-over Madras chicken, her mother’s favorite recipe, comfort food from childhood. Then read a story to her daughter, one about unicorns or fluffy little kittens. After that they could snuggle down together for a good night’s sleep.

This past week had been nothing short of surreal. One day after she’d gotten her dream promotion, her ex-husband, Jeff, had appeared out of nowhere, stood on the manicured lawn in front of her rented townhouse and screamed like the maniac he was. She’d locked the doors and windows, despite the unusual April heatwave, and kept Roshani inside her bedroom at the back of the house. The tirade continued relentlessly for a good thirty minutes. Once they figured out it wasn’t an elaborate April Fools’ Day joke, the neighbors had stayed inside, behind drawn curtains, too scared to approach the raving lunatic. The police eventually dragged Jeff off in handcuffs, screaming and yelling about damnation, Hellfire and the end of the world. 

That had been three days ago. This afternoon, she’d gone into the station, reiterated to the detectives that she had a long standing restraining order out against Jeff, and signed all the infernal paperwork they’d given her. While she tended to such nasty necessities, she’d left Roshani with the neighbor she had adopted as a surrogate grandfather the minute he’d moved in next door.

Heaven sent, he was the only one who knew the truth. 

She knocked on the dark brown door, letting her ebony hair tumbled out of its bun while she waited. As the waves cascaded past her shoulder, she could feel some of the tension ebb out. She heard a door inside open and slam shut, and two different sets of footsteps pad across the carpet, one toward the front door. Sadhana practised her dinner invitation, the thank-you for babysitting her rambunctious child, even though she knew he wouldn’t accept. He was an older man, in his early sixties if one judged by appearance alone, a bald crown surrounded by blinding white hair, and the sharpest blue eyes Sadhana had ever seen in her life. His speech was precise, but in an indiscernible accent. She liked to pretend he was an inventor or an author: he had the wildest ideas, told the most amazing stories, stories of others like them, in vivid detail.

Most importantly, however, he loved Roshani as his own and vowed to guard and watch over both of them.

“Come in, my dear,” he said, sticking his head outside to scan the front yard. He closed the door behind him and locked it.

“Did Roshani behave today?” Sadhana asked nervously, because she knew how exhausting her daughter could be. 

“Yes, yes. Of course. She’s a very good little girl, all things considered.”

“Which you always say. Luckily I know what you mean. Listen —”

“My dear Sadhana,” he said as he took her hand and led her away from the front door, toward the oval, maple table in the dining corner. Pieces of construction paper were scattered across the tabletop. He gestured for her to sit. “I cannot accept your invitation. Instead, I need you and Roshani to leave here.”

“Leave? Why? What’s happened? Is she all right?”

“She’s absolutely fine. But Jeff has escaped from custody, and he is meeting with—” He looked around again then lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’ve been told he is presently meeting with demonic forces. I need you two to not be here when they arrive.”

“They?”

“Yes,” he answered. “He’s bringing reinforcements.” He grabbed a piece of pea green paper from the table and handed it to her. “This woman knows you are coming.”

Without looking at the page, Sadhana asked, “She’s a prophet, too? Or an angel?”

Semangelof, one of three archangels responsible for the damnation of Lilith, an angel of medicine and healing, protector of children, laughed. There were a lot of ways to describe Molly McArthur, but neither prophet nor angel were one of them. “No, she calls herself a psychic. But she knows what needs to be done, what you're up against, how to help you. I visited her last week. She will take care of you until other arrangements can be made.”

“I know this neighborhood,” Sadhana said, looking up from the paper to gauge Semangelof’s reaction. “It’s not a good one. Gangs, drugs, violence. And you want me to take Roshani there?”

Semangelof grabbed both of Sadhana’s hands and squeezed them gently. “My dearest, don’t be fooled by appearances. Molly and her ‘children’ are prepared to go to the ends of the earth and back for you. She’s arranged for Father Dimitri Kafasis to pick you up in an hour. He’s from Salvation, Iowa, and has first-hand experience with —“

“Prophets?”

“No, demons. Prophets,” Semangelof grinned. “I think this will be very new for him. But he knows who I am and I he. I trust him.”

“Okay,” Sadhana said. Footsteps pounded up from the basement and a small flash of purple and green bound into Sadhana’s arms. Sadhana returned the effusive hug and took the offered notebook from her daughter’s hands.

“I drawed more stories for you! And we packeded a suitcase. Are we going on ‘cation, mommy?”

Crouching to bring himself to her eye level, Semangelof grabbed the bundle of energy by the shoulders and turned her to face him. “You and your mommy are going to be staying with a friend of mine for a while. She and her friends are going to help you and keep you safe. I’m going to have to ask you,” he tapped her on the nose, “to help keep an eye on a baby named Alex. He was born very sick but is feeling better now. We’d like to keep it that way. Can you help them while they help you and your mother?”

Tears pooled around the hazel-green irises. Her lower lip trembled. Sadhana watched as her daughter weighed the gravity of the situation. 

“You will be watched over for all eternity,” Semangelof said softly. “No matter what happens now or in the future, always keep that in your heart.” He hugged Roshani, then stood. “And now you must go.”

~*~

**May 1, 2014**

 

Something about this hunt bothered him, set his stomach churning in a way that hadn’t happened since Dean’s sudden disappearance in 2012. Nothing seemed particularly unusual, on paper it looked like a regular demon attack. Life was back to the Winchester variant of normal, but somehow, this one felt out of kilter.

Sam turned his head to look out into the parking lot. He needed to focus before Dean started to harass him about turning thirty-two tomorrow, about worrying like an old man. As he tried to compose himself, a young couple walked past the deli’s window toward a pristine, ice-blue four-door Ford Focus, their fingers intertwined, her face turned towards his, both of them laughing heartily. Sunshine bounced off her flaxen hair, creating a halo effect that seemed in place on this crisp, May Day. The woman’s engagement ring glistened when she ran a hand over her ponytail. 

Sam sighed. How long had it been since he thought about Jess, all they had planned, her death, how events since then kept catapulting him back into the world of ghosts, monsters, demons — back into a world to which he was inexorably tied. 

“Sam!” Dean snapped. “You brought us here for a reason, remember? We could be in Cleveland. Rock-n-Roll Hall of Fame. Or Canton. Football Hall of Fame. What’s in Columbus?”

“Right,” Sam sighed, drawn back into that world. He turned his laptop around to show Dean the various tabs open to a map with blue and red flags dotting the city, local news items, meteorological reports. “Classic hallmarks: electrical storms, crop circles, cows being tossed, and no tornadoes.”

“Do we have a specific place to focus our efforts? Or are we stuck wandering around until some demon wants a Wendy’s triple stack?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Most of the events happen not far from I-270. They’re the blue flags. This Block’s Bagels is along the inner rim of the outages.”

Dean leaned forward to get a better look at the map. “Around the ring road? So it’s circling Columbus for a reason? But what’s the red flag?”

“Evidence hints that it all started in this area,” Sam pointed to I-270 and traced northeast. “In the Blacklick-Reynoldsburg area. A month ago,” he continued, leaning over the laptop to switch to a different tab. “There’s a report of a domestic scene. Some nut job yelling at his ex- claiming, according to the witnesses, that she was, and I quote, ‘the harbinger of the future.’”

“Oh, great,” Dean moaned.

“Neighbors call the cops. Cops lock him up in Mount Carmel’s psych ward but he escapes a couple of days later.” Sam clicked on another tab. “Wife and kid disappear—"

“Well, yeah,” Dean said. “Wouldn’t you?”

Sam nodded. “But then, about a week later, there’s a flash fire and the ex- and a neighbor are killed. The electrical storms, power outages start immediately afterwards.”

“Gunning for the wife.”

“Looks like it. Last weekend the police had a number of reports of strange people hanging around a housing project in Gahanna. Plus, flashing, strobe-like lights. Police investigated, dismissed them as practical jokes by the kids who live there. Apparently they’re known trouble. But the rest of the incidents fit demonic pattern.”

“Awesome,” Dean grinned and clapped his hands together. “Back to basics.”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. “In, out. Simple, routine. I figure we should start at the murder site.”

“So what’s eating you?” Dean bit into his pastrami bagel. “You’ve got that pinched, bitch face.”

“I don’t know,” Sam answered, turning the computer around again. “Something feels wrong.”

“How wrong?”

“Leviathan-scale wrong.”

Dean wiped his mouth with a napkin and smirked. “That’s helpful. Maybe it's old age. Pretty sure I can see at least five grey hairs. ”

“You should talk. Isn’t that why you still get a regulation cut?” Sam quipped. “Seriously, maybe we should skip this one. Let somebody else handle it.”

“Who else is there? Jody Mills? Too far. Everyone else is dead.”

“I guess —”

“Sammy,” Dean said, putting his bagel back down on the plate. “Tell ya what. Let’s go to this place on —” 

“Off East Broad.”

“Right. East Broad. Scope it out and see what we find. If it’s a big, fat nothing, we drop it.”

Sam continued to frown. “It’s not going to be a ‘big, fat nothing’. We both know that. Look, it’s probably nothing but —”

“If something goes wrong, we’ll regroup, hang ‘round Columbus for a bit, find a new gig. Yeah?”

Sam sighed and pulled out a five-dollar bill from his wallet. Tossing it on the table, he looked over at his brother. “Okay. But don’t do anything stupid.”

“Like I’d do anything stupid. You, on the other hand, with your advancing years…”

~*~

Dean drove past the convenience store and turned into the entrance of the complex of attached townhouses, each building comprised of four units, all painted in various tones of browns, lawns meticulously mowed, hedges uniformly manicured. Even the cars lining the parking areas in front of the buildings were from the same middle-class wage bracket. The only signs of individual personality that Dean saw as he followed the road around a grassy island, complete with a useless, brown wishing well, were the flowers in the brown window boxes: petunias, pansies, marigolds and that was where Dean’s flower garden vocabulary stopped. He wanted to say something to Sam about the over-achieving monotony, but Sam was still staring sullenly out the passenger window.

Finally they arrived at their destination: four townhouses at the end of the cul-de-sac, three of which were cordoned off with yellow crime tape, no sign of a fire, a russet brown Chevy Impala LT parked in front. 

“Don’t worry, baby,” Dean mumbled. “She’s got nothing on you.”

“I can’t believe you have cop car envy,” Sam said.

“Yeah, right. As boring as this neighborhood.” Dean turned off the motor. “Have they called the feds in yet?”

Sam shook his head. “Not that I’ve read. We go in as Bureau?”

Dean pulled out his keys and popped open his door. “Best idea. Which number was the murder in?”

“Sixty-six. Sixty-four was the wife and kid’s place.” Sam got out of the car and looked up at the second story. “Maybe the fire was in the back?”

Dean joined Sam on the sidewalk, walking in tandem to the house. “Could’ve been. We’ll check it out.”

“There’s that bad feeling again,” Sam moaned, as the lifted the yellow crime tape that was draped between the columns on the small concrete porch. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Just remember: if it goes sour, back to the beginning, find something else.” Dean pushed the dark brown door open and stepped hesitantly inside. “FBI! Agents McGuinn and Crosby, comin’ in!”

A tall man, a thick shock of jet-black hair, dressed in a black trench coat stepped out from a back room. “FBI? Who called you guys?”

A second man, shorter than his partner, with a much bulkier build that strained against an ill-fitting suit, walked out and went to stand next to what had been a table. Most of the table and the chairs that had once been placed around it had been smashed. The windows in the back of the townhouse had been shattered, but the glass lay inside, not outside. The men stepped on the shards of wood as they approached Sam and Dean. 

“Who are you?” Dean asked.

“Detectives Durnak and Mercadé, Reynoldsburg police,” replied Trenchcoat. “This is our case.”

“We left a message,” Dean said. “Apparently it wasn’t passed on.”

“We had a similar case in Indiana a couple of years back,” Sam quickly improvised, ignoring Dean’s death stare. “Complete with missing mothers and children. Thought we might be of help. ”

“You find the kids?” Trenchcoat asked quietly. 

“Most of ‘em,” Dean replied. “Boiled down to a local looney.”

Trenchcoat nodded knowingly, but the other detective gestured behind Sam and Dean. “You want looney,” he said, “this guy was icing. I’m Andy, by the way. Andy Durnak. That’s Carlos Mercadé.”

“Dean and Sasquatch Sam,” Dean responded, silently chuckling when Sam’s shoulders involuntarily hunched. “So, this guy was the ex- —“

“Jeff Miller,” Andy supplied and walked passed them to a door. “Wait until you see what he did to the basement.”

“We read the reports,” Dean started as he followed the detectives, leaving Sam to pull up the rear. “Part of a Doomsday cult or something?”

“We figure so,” Andy answered. “But they didn’t like him much.”

“What makes you say that?” Sam asked as he reached the bottom step.

Andy and Carlos stopped about ten feet into the empty basement area. Andy pointed at the red stains and numbered markers just ahead. 

“Because we found his body there, there, and,” he swept his arm around behind them, “in the corner there. But what’s really interesting is what was around the body we found over in the corner by the windows that used to be in the wall.”

“And then what happened to the body,” Carlos added.

Sam stayed with the detectives, while Dean walked over to the corner. He squatted on his haunches, looked at the floor, then turned on his heels. “Wings,” he said to Sam.

“What’d that victim look like?” Sam asked as Dean dragged his fingers through the black ash on the floor and sniffed it. Dean shook his head.

“Old, white hair, bald on top. Neighbors said he arrived just after Miller’s ex- and kid moved in. Quiet, friendly, everybody liked him. Apparently he used to babysit the kid. We figure that’s what got him killed.”

“Good reason to stay away from kids,” Dean said, walking over to the window frame and running a finger along the ledge. He turned around and showed Sam the pale yellow dust.

“You said something happened to the old man’s body?” Sam asked.

“Yeah,” Carlos said. “We sent it to the morgue, but it disappeared after it got there.”

“Disappeared?” Sam repeated.

“Poof!” Andy said. “We had time to run prints, and got nothing on him. Plus, there’s no ID in this place. None at all. Not even a bill.”

“Okay,” Dean started as he returned to the group. He glanced sideways up the stairs. “Let’s get out of here and go next door. Can’t see as this place is going to tell us any more than what you’ve already got.”

Sam started up the stairs, Carlos on his heels, when a flash of light burst through the windows. Metal clanged, crashed and rolled outside. Dean spun around, gun already out of his waistband and pointed toward the window as Sam dashed up the stairs. Carlos turned and looked for confirmation from his partner, who nodded toward the top of the stairs.

When nothing appeared in the basement, the three followed Sam upstairs. By the time they reached the living room, Sam had already run out the back door. A dull thud was heard, followed by more metal clanging. Calling for silence, Dean led the detectives to the back door.

Behind the townhouses, in the area for extra parking and the garbage dumpsters for the building, a teenager, his skateboard lying in the middle of the asphalt, had been thrown against one of the dumpsters and lay unconscious in front of it. A small blue bicycle, training wheels bent flat against the back wheels, had been tossed into the other dumpster.

Dean raised his gun and yelled. In front of the last townhouse’s back door, Sam was being lifted off the ground by a demon; Dean could tell that the minute it turned to leer at him, pure black eyes crinkling up in the corner as he smirked and disappeared.

With Sam.

“What the fuck just happened?” Andy yelled. “Where the hell did they go?”


	3. Chapter 3

Dean lifted the green bottle to his lips and took a pull. Despite being happy hour, O’Toole’s was blissfully empty. In the two weeks since Sam’s disappearance, he’d sampled the beers, domestic, imported and boutique, in every bar in eastern Columbus. His waking hours, after the requisite morning visit to Block's Bagels where the staff knew not only his assumed name but his favorite order, were spent either stalking the halls of the many hospitals and emergency care clinics in the six counties around the capital or listening to a police scanner he’d bought at the Kidney Foundation Thrift Store.

No one matching Sam’s description had been found — dead or alive — in central Ohio.

A breeze blew into the bar when the door opened, allowing the increasing humidity to creep inside. A young woman, probably in her first or second year at Ohio State, sat herself down across from Dean. He glanced at her briefly, wondered how long it had taken her to achieve the messy hair look, then whispered “Christos” under his breath. When, to his irritation, nothing happened, he returned his attention to his bottle of O’Doul’s. 

“You’re Dean Winchester,” the woman said, after an uncomfortable moment of silence. 

Dean arched an eyebrow and popped a pretzel into his mouth.

She slid a piece of pale, purple stationery across the table, the large cuff of metal bangles jingling loudly when they hit the wooden surface. “You’re needed at this address.”

“Really?” He glanced at the paper but made no move toward it. “Says who?”

She looked around the bar, noticing for the first time the bartender, solitary waitress and the other three customers. Leaning forward, she whispered, “The prophet needs you. Immediately.”

“The what now?” Dean asked, coughing as he choked on his beer.

“Prophet,” she repeated, her face contorted with confusion. “God’s messenger, who foresees —”

“I know what a prophet is. My answer is no.”

Startled, she jerked back in her chair. “B-b-but —”

“Look…” Dean waved his hand in circles.

“Cheyenne.”

“Cheyenne,” Dean repeated then took another drink of his beer, forcing her to wait and fidget. “My brother’s gone missing—”

“We know,” she said, nodding. “The prophet—”

“And until I find him, I refuse to babysit for either side.”

“But they’ve already killed the prophet’s guardian angel!”

“Yep.” Dean nodded and winked. “Saw the mess.”

She leaned forward again, bangles from both arms clanging against the tabletop. “Then you know how easily they can hurt the prophet. If they—”

“Hang on. ‘They’,” Dean made air quotes, “are demons or angels?

“Demons, of course. Why would you think angels? They’re the good guys.”

“Don’t know many angels, do you, Cheyenne?”

“No,” Cheyenne said, shaking her head. Dean found himself fascinated with the way her bleached blonde hair moved en masse like a helmet. “Not personally, but—”

“Couldn’t tell.”

“Look. This isn’t a negotiation,” she said, stabbing the table with her finger for emphasis. “I promised to do whatever I can to protect the prophet, and since I’m the one who found you, I’ll just wait until you agree to come.”

“Yeah, you do that,” Dean replied and finished his beer. “This prophet tell you I’d come back with you?”

“I didn’t say that,” Cheyenne said, grabbing a pretzel from the bowl. 

“Oh, so the prophet doesn’t _really_ know if I’ll accept your generous ultimatum.” Dean signalled for the waitress. “Typical prophet.”

Cheyenne chuckled. “I can promise you, you’ve never met a prophet like this one before.”

“Right,” Dean drawled. “Want a beer, since you’re gonna be here for a while?”

“Not legally allowed to. But thanks.”

Dean groaned and swiped a hand down his face. “Crap. How old are you?”

“Old enough.”

“Damn it,” Dean snapped. “If I don’t agree to go, you’ll just sit there and annoy the hell out of me, right?”

“Yes.”

“Fine,” Dean sighed deeply. “Give me directions and I’ll meet you. And you damned well better be there when I arrive, Cheyenne.”

Smirking, Cheyenne stood and pointed at the piece of stationery. “Directions are there, if you’d bother to look at it.”

With another sigh, Dean picked up the paper and opened it. “Well, look at that. Directions. You’re pretty fucking sure I’d agree to this shit.”

“Yes,” Cheyenne said, slinging her purse over her shoulder. “And watch your mouth. No one’s allowed to speak like that in front of the prophet.”

~*~

Dean parked the Impala in the parking lot in front of the complex. One long building was to his right, three smaller buildings flanked the left of the car park, on the side next to an abandoned and vandalized Wonder Bread store. No grass, play area or shrubbery could be seen; not even hanging from the doorways or windows. Every window was barred with security grills, the doors had only peepholes. A group of men hovered around their cars, smoking what Dean knew was not cigarettes, sharing a bottle of cheap booze, watching a drug deal go down in front of the second building.

He tucked the revolver into the back of his jeans and stepped out of the Impala. On the hood of a red Honda Civic, ten years old give or take a few rust spots, two teenaged boys and a girl shared a laugh. They paid no attention to the events surrounding them, concerned only about the joke they shared. One of the boys stopped laughing and slid off the car as soon as Dean slammed his door shut. 

“Smooth ride,” the kid said, as he sauntered toward Dean. Dean tried not to chuckle at the exaggerated stride, the baggy jeans and the belt that was obviously for decorative purposes only.

“Yeah, it is. And it better stay that way. Get it?”

The boy walked around the Impala, running a hand gently along her metal detail. “Sure, sure. What you doin’ here? Never seen you before.”

“You talking to me or my car?”

The boy straightened up. “Man, you serious? It’s a car. Ain’t gonna talk.”

“KITT does.”

“Dude has money. You don’t. Obviously. Here to deal?”

“I’m meeting someone, or was. I don’t see her around,” Dean said, scouring for a sign of Cheyenne. That would be par for this course: trust some underage kid and get stuck in a mini-hellhole while Sam was God knows where.

The boy watched Dean canvas the area. “I’m Darien. You Dean Winchester?”

He turned his attention back to the boy. “Yes,” he said, eyes narrowing.

“Prophet did a good job describing your car.”

“Right. This prophet of yours into cars?”

“A little, yeah,” Darien said with a chuckle. “You need to go to door three-C, to the right there,” he said pointing in the direction of the long building. “They’re waiting for you. Hope you’re hungry. Miss Molly made dogs and mac-n-cheese. She makes the best mac-n-cheese.”

“Miss who?”

“Molly,” Darien repeated with a slow nod. “She runs this place. The reason the prophet moved here, too.” He leaned toward Dean. “Don’t mess with her, man. She looks all mild-mannered but one step outta line and she will beat you down.”

Dean clapped Darien on the shoulder. “Thanks. I can count on you to watch over my car, right?”

“Sure, sure. Bring me some pie and you got a deal.”

Dean turned around. “There’s pie?”

Darien nodded. “Yep, ‘cause the prophet likes pie. Apple, smelled it baking.”

“Right,” Dean said as he walked across the asphalt. “3-C” was sloppily painted on the dark green door in bright orange paint. He knocked on the door, inspected the runes drawn around the frame and felt the tension creep back into his neck and shoulders. He heard female voices shouting instructions and then footfalls approaching the door.

Cheyenne opened the door: she’d changed out of the outfit she’d worn to the bar into a pair of low-riding, black sweatpants and two tank tops: one DayGlo green, the other an equally bright orange. She still wore the mass of metal bracelets on both arms, but her hair had been brushed and pulled into a ponytail. The make-up she’d worn when he saw her earlier had been scrubbed off. Fresh-faced, she looked seventeen at the most.

“Told ya,” she said. “Miss Molly and Mrs. Miller are waiting for you.” She waved to Darien and pulled the door open. “Come in. You hungry?”

“I’m not here to get comfortable,” Dean said. He pointed to the runes. “I see you’re prepared,” he said.

“Yeah,” Cheyenne agreed. “Father Dimitri told us all what to do. He knows a lot about this sh— stuff.”

“Can’t swear in front of the prophet?” Dean teased.

“Nah, but don’t want my kid to hear it either.”

“You have a kid?”

“Yep,” Cheyenne said, beaming. “His name is Alex. He’s eighteen months old. The prophet’s in with him now.”

“Is that boy comin’ in or are you’ns gonna carry this conversation without us, Cheyenne?” The voice was an older woman’s, rough like she smoked a pack a day. Had to be Miss Molly, Dean figured.

Cheyenne’s brows rose to hide in her bangs and she waved him in. Dean stepped over the threshold, glancing down to see the thin line of salt. In front of him, in the main room, in a ratty orange chair sat a young woman, in her late twenties, he estimated. Dressed in jeans and a Cleveland Browns T-shirt, she seemed petite, fragile, at most a hundred pounds soaking wet. Her heart-shaped face was creased with worry, her deep-set brown eyes burdened with heavy bags and she chewed incessantly on her bottom lip. Nervously, she gathered her ebony hair in her hand and twirled it into a ponytail, draping it over her right shoulder. If this was the prophet, she wasn’t taking the burden too well; at least she was easier to look at than Chuck or Kevin.

On the sofa to her right sat the person he assumed to be Miss Molly. She was the exact opposite: heavy-set, dressed in a cotton floral dress covered by a pink apron, wearing knee-high beige stockings and ugly, brown orthopaedic shoes. Her white hair had threads of dark grey and black peppered throughout, her tanned face was wrinkled with age, not worry. Her pale blue eyes were assessing him in the same way he was assessing them. 

Raising a white and red cane, she pointed to the brown chair to her right. A glass of orange juice sat on the table in front of the chair. “Sit, Dean Winchester. Cheyenne, bring him some eatins to go with the juice.”

Dean sat in the chair, not taking his eyes off of the nervous younger woman. “I’m not actually—“

“Did I ask?” Miss Molly said. “No, I did not. Now, I am Molly McArthur. Known ‘round here as Miss Molly. This,” she waved toward the orange chair, “is Sadhana Miller.”

“I’ve been to your old place,” Dean said. He smiled at Cheyenne when she put a plate with macaroni-and-cheese, a portion of broccoli and two hot dogs on the coffee table in front of him. “Heck of a mess there.”

Sadhana looked down the hallway behind her then frowned. “He really is dead, then?”

“Who? Your ex-?”

“No,” Sadhana said, rubbing the palm of her hand with her thumb.”I was worried about Sem— the older man who lived there.”

“He knows,” Cheyenne said as she sat down between the two women. “Didn’t flinch when I mentioned it.”

“Mentioned what?” Dean looked between the three of them.

“Semangelof is, was an archangel,” Sadhana said quietly. “He was a good, good man. He arranged for us to come here.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Angels aren’t human. They can be scum-suckers. He murdered your ex-husband, tore him into pieces. And this neighborhood he sent you to? Not exactly prime real estate.”

Sadhana shot out of her chair. “Don’t you _dare_ talk about him like that. You didn’t know him! Ever since he arrived, Semangelof loved us and did _everything_ possible to protect us. If he did kill Jeff, he must have had a goddamned good reason. That fucking _maniac_ has been threatening to kill—“

“Didn’t your prophecies tell you all that would happen?” Dean asked, fascinated with the sudden outburst. He glanced at Cheyenne. “Foul language isn’t allowed in front of the prophet, but she can use it?”

“It’s not,” Molly said. “What’s your point?”

“Hang on,” Sadhana said, sitting back in her chair. “You think I’m the prophet?”

“Aren’t you?” Dean asked.

“Mommy!” came a cry from the back of the house. “Alex is stinky!”

Cheyenne stood. “That’s my cue. And just when it was getting really interesting.” She rose, squeezing Sadhana’s shoulder as she passed, and disappeared down the hallway.

After a moment of awkward silence, punctuated by Cheyenne explaining something in the back room, Dean repeated, “Aren’t you?”

Sadhana glanced over at Molly, then rubbed the palm of her hand again. She opened her mouth to answer.

“Mommy?” came a screech followed by a small girl who entered into the room with one solitary skip. Dressed in a pair of denim shorts, a green T-shirt with a pink horse with huge eyes on the front, a purple tutu and a Burger King crown, the screamer looked like a miniature version of her mother. The main difference was the color of hair: where Sadhana’s was jet-black, the screamer’s was a deep chocolate, highlighted with a lighter brown. The screamer stopped just inside the room, looked briefly at Dean, then held out a spiral notebook to Sadhana.

“I drawed a story, Mommy,” she said, as she scrambled into Sadhana’s lap. 

“Drew,” Sadhana corrected.

“I drew,” the screamer drawled, “a picture for you.” She cast a sideways glance at Dean but continued, holding the notebook in front of her mother’s face. “See? This is a mean man. He’s very naughty, because he’s throwing things at the peoples.”

Sadhana glanced at the picture, then at Dean. Dean looked at both of them, over at Molly who was smirking, then back at the mother and daughter. 

The little girl returned the scrutiny, then slid off her mother’s lap to kneel on the floor. She placed the notebook on the coffee table and quietly began to flip through pages until she came to two. She investigated both pictures, repeatedly, pursing her lips as she did. With a short, curt nod of her head, she ripped out the pages and rose. She turned back to look at her mother, who smiled thinly in response.

“Princess,” Sadhana said, quietly. “This is Dean. Dean, this is my daughter, Roshani.”

He shifted his gaze from the little girl to Sadhana, who shrugged her shoulders, before returning his attention to the child who had decided to stand beside him. “Nice to meet you,” he said to her. 

She held out the two pages, batting her eyelashes as he reached out to take them. 

“Are these for me?” he asked.

She patted his arm, slowly, repeatedly, like a parent comforting a child. “This one is for your brother, to put on his wall. See? That’s you and that’s him. And see? I drawed —“

“Drew,” Sadhana corrected again.

“I drew smiles, ‘cause you’re happy. Why is he bigger than you?” she asked.

“He ate his vegetables, Roshani,” Molly answered. “Children who eat their vegetables grow tall.”

“Oh,” the girl responded. She looked up at Dean. “Didn’t you eat your vegetables?”

“I let him eat my vegetables, because he’s my little brother.” Dean pulled out the second drawing and placed it on top of the other one. “Roshani, right?” She nodded once, so sharply Dean wondered if she ever got whiplash. “Is this one for him to put on his wall, too?”

“You’re funny,” Roshani said then tched and shook her head, snapping it from side to side. “No. This is yours. See?” She pointed to the corner. “It has a pie in it.”

“Roshani,” Dean said and leaned forward. “What do you know about my brother?”

“He’s not where you’re looking,” she answered. “You’ll find him and then everything will be aaaalllll good.”

“Where is he, if he’s not where I’m looking? I need to find him.”

Roshani sighed and looked around the room. “Mommy? Do you think Alex is still stinky?”

“I think, if he’s still awake, he’s clean and dry. Why don’t you go check?”

Roshani nodded, and patted Dean’s arm again. “Bye, bye, funny Dean. See you later.” He watched her as she skipped-hopped down the hall.

“Holy sh—,” Dean mumbled, sitting back in the chair. “You are fu—. You have got to be joking.”

“You just met the prophet,” Molly answered. “Crops up unannounced and disappears just as fast.”

Dean looked at Sadhana. “This is insane.”

“Tell me about it,” she responded. “She’s four years old. And this has been happening since she was two and a half. It was scary as he— all get out until Semangelof came. He explained things, not that I believed him, and taught her to draw out the ‘stories’ he called them, if she could remember them. We’ve kept all the notebooks with the drawings in them.”

“She’s four,” Dean repeated. He stood and started to pace the small room. “Does she understand any of this?”

“I don’t think so,” Sadhana replied. “At least I hope not.”

He turned to look at her. “What has she seen? Do you know?”

Sadhana glanced at Molly who nodded in encouragement. “Mostly what she calls ‘mean things’ or ‘mean people’ doing bad things. But—”

“But what?”

“I think she’s seen death,” Sadhana said, so softly Dean had to strain to hear her. “I’m not sure, but I think that’s what a few of the drawings are.”

“Death, himself, as in the Angel of?” Dean saw her shake her head. “Whose death? Your ex’s?”

“No,” she replied. Dean saw the tears begin to pool in her eyes, saw her inhale through her mouth in increasingly rapid pants in an attempt to stop the tears. 

Cheyenne returned to the room, surveyed the scene and made a sharp detour into the kitchen. She filled a kettle and plopped it loudly onto the stove. Banging doors, she searched for cups, slamming them on the counter when she found what she was looking for.

“No,” Sadhana repeated, distracted enough to control the tears. “I think she saw hers. It’s in one of her first notebooks.”

Dean sat back down in the chair, rested his arms on his knees, laced his fingers together. He glanced at Cheyenne as she stood — arms crossed over her chest, a scowl planted on her face — and waited for the kettle to boil. “Okay,” he said. “I’ve seen her artwork. How can you know it was her?”

Sadhana smiled wistfully. “It was a picture of a girl, long hair, on top of a hill. She was holding a sword, Roshani called it ‘a big, pointy, shiny stick’, above her head. At her feet, climbing up the hill, were a bunch of ‘very bad people’, she called them. A lot of red.”

“But how do you know it was her? Did she say it was her?”

“No,” Sadhana answered. “But the girl had a crown on her head and was wearing a pink tutu.” She looked across at Dean. “That’s what she was wearing the day she drew it. She said, ‘Don’t worry, mommy. It’s a long ways away.’”

“Shit.” Dean looked down at his boots, decided they needed a good clean, then looked up again. “Does she remember these visions?”

Sadhana shrugged. “She used to tell Semangelof, and get confused, so he convinced her to draw the visions and then put the notebook away. Since he—” She took in a deep breath. “Since he died, she’s been keeping the worst of them from me. She says she tells them to her imaginary friend and he makes —“

“Her what?” Dean asked, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

“Imaginary friend. She says he comes whenever she has a really bad dream. He comes—“

“What’s this imaginary friend’s name?” Dean snapped.

Sadhana’s brow furrowed. “She hasn’t told me his name.”

“For fuck’s sake! How can you not know the name?” Dean ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “How do you know this friend can be trusted?”

“What _is_ your issue?” Sadhana asked, her temper flaring again. “With everything I just told you and you’re freaking out about an imaginary friend?”

“He could be a demon. Your kid is a target, you don’t trust anyone or anything! Nothing!” 

“I do trust him,” Sadhana said, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning back in the chair. “He told her you were a good person and that _we_ should trust _you_.”

Dean stared at her.

“Still think I’m a stupid bitch?” she asked with a smirk.

“I didn’t say that,” he said.

“Dude,” she said, leaning forward to point at him. “It was written all over your five o-clock shadow. I may be new to this demon, prophet, angel bullshit, but I am _not_ stupid.”

Dean arched an eyebrow but bit back every retort that sprang into his mind. 

A coded knock — two rapid sequences of three raps — came from the front door. The door opened and a young Asian kid entered the room: skinny, dressed in black with silver chains threaded from his waistband through to each pocket, he walked across the room and bent to whisper something in Molly’s ear. She nodded and wagged two fingers toward the back of the house. He nodded, looked around the room, and smiled briefly when he saw Cheyenne in the kitchen. Dean watched as Cheyenne blushed and smiled back. After a quick, indignant glimpse at Dean, the kid left the room.

“Charles says that two cops just drove in,” Molly said. “They’re homicide, and since no one knows you’re here, Sadhana, perhaps you should go into the back until we’ve finished our business.” She pointed at Dean. “You! Stay there and play along.”

Sadhana rose silently and left as Cheyenne quickly put the mugs back and pulled out two glasses from the cupboard. She brought out an ice tray and dumped a few ice cubes into each. After a quick glance at Molly, she pulled out a jug of orange juice and poured some into each glass.

“Just to be sure,” Molly said to Dean, with a wink. 

After a knock on the door, Dean turned around to see Charles escort Detectives Durnak and Mercadé into the room.

“Evening, Molly,” Andy started, then finished with, “Whoa. What the hell are you doing here, Agent McGuinn?”

“Could ask you the same,” Dean replied.

Cheyenne came in from the kitchen area and offered both men a glass.

“Thanks, Cheyenne,” Carlos said. “How’re you doing? And little Alex?”

“We’re fine thanks, Detective. How’re your wife and the twins?” she asked as she watched them both drink. When nothing happened, she smiled and twirled her ponytail innocently around her finger.

“All good, kid. Thanks for the drink,” Carlos said, putting the glass on the counter separating the kitchen from the living room.

“Not to interrupt the feel-good reunion, but any word on my partner?” Dean said. “You were supposed to keep me informed, but I haven’t heard a peep from either of you since he disappeared.”

“That’s ‘cause all the leads have dried up until now,” Carlos answered.

“You could ask me,” Molly offered.

“Don’t start, Molly,” Andy said. “Besides, we’re here about something else.”

“Which might be related,” Carlos muttered. “But we’re not sure.”

“Just a head’s up,” Andy said. “Tony’s at Whitehall Station.”

“What the hell’d he do now?”

“Nothing,” Carlos said. “He’s assisting an investigation. He was working drive-through when some guys—” He looked at Dean briefly. “Some guys in suits held up the store. They killed the manager. Tony witnessed it.”

“He’s okay?” Cheyenne asked.

“Yep,” Andy said. “A bit of shock, but he’s good.” He turned to Dean. “As Carlos said, it bears a similarity to what we witnessed.”

“What?” Dean asked. “Guys in suits? That’s your similarity?”

“No,” Carlos said. “The guy who killed the manager was asking after Jeff Miller’s ex- and kid. He lifted the manager off the ground, like we saw with your partner, and when the guy said he didn’t know anything about the two, snapped his neck.”

“Well, not exactly,” Andy said. “Sorry, Molly, Cheyenne, but the guy snapped the manager’s head _off_ and then tore his limbs off and tossed them.”

“Like vic one in the basement,” Dean said.

“Yep,” Carlos said with a nod.

“Catch them?”

“Nope,” Andy said. “They disappeared. Two guys.” He turned to Molly. “Look, Tony’s fine but with these two guys on the loose, we’ll need to keep an eye on him, for his safety. You understand.”

“You think they know he saw?” Molly asked.

“We think they can figure it out.”

“You’ns ain’t comin’ in here for some half-ass protection duty. I got this place covered.”

“We know, Molly, but—“

“I’ll do it,” Dean offered. “I’ll keep an eye on this Tony kid. Nothing better to do until we find my partner.”

“You okay with that, Molly?” Carlos asked. “If they’re the same guys who killed his partner and the other two—“

“His partner ain’t dead,” Molly said. “Psychic, remember?”

Andy pinched the bridge of his nose. “Aw, don’t toy with him, Molly.”

“Who said I’m toying?” She turned to face Dean and grabbed his hand. “Bobby said to tell you Sam ain’t dead. He told you he’d meet you on the other side, so he looked, high and low, if you get my drift. He ain’t dead.”

Dean stared at her, eyes wide. He swallowed around the lump in his throat then nodded.

“Bobby also asked me to tell you,” she continued. “Didn’t ask. He demanded I tell you that he left something for you two ‘idjits’. His friend is watching over this thing until the time is right. When you’ns're ready, go, collect it.”


	4. Chapter 4

Dean remained in the familiar security of the Impala while Tony walked up to the group seated on the asphalt: in a line stretching from Molly’s to the last townhouse. Before Tony managed to cross the blacktop, Darien ran up to him and pulled him into a bear hug. Relief evident on his face and apprehension in his body language, Darien kept talking as he flitted his attention between the Impala, Molly and Tony. Finally, Tony nodded, put his arm around Darien’s shoulder and the two continued toward the lineup.

Cheyenne jumped out of her lawn chair, holding a can of Diet Coke in one hand, what looked like the same baby monitor Lisa’s sister had used in the other, and wrapped herself around Tony. When she finally let go, she looked around and waved. Dean started to return the wave, just as Charles jogged past the car.

While the reunion continued to unfold, Dean leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes. He figured, at the rate they were all hugging and blubbering, he had twenty or thirty minutes to plan how he was going to keep an eye on Tony, get to Block's Bagels every morning to wait for Sam, and still guard the “prophet”.

“Four fucking years old,” Dean grumbled, closing his eyes in order to better visualize some sort of routine. He could just imagine the amounts of trouble a normal preschooler could cause; let alone one who had Heaven and Hell looking for them. Add to that one living in a neighborhood like this, rougher than anything he remembered staying in when Sam was that little...

A loud tapping on his window snapped him out of his reverie. He glared at the guilty party, rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, then rolled down his window.

“What?” he snapped.

“Miss Molly says you’re supposed to come join us,” Darien said.

“I’m fine.”

“See that’s the thing,” Darien replied, shuffling uneasily on his feet. “She says you all need to work out arrangements for Tony and the Millers.” He waited, leaning against the car, while Dean scratched his forehead and yawned. “She sent Cheyenne in to get you a Bud. Said you needed dessert.”

“Shit,” Dean said.

“What?”

“I promised you a piece of pie for watching my car.” Dean waved Darien away from the door. “I forgot,” he said as he opened the door and stepped out.

“S’okay. You brought Tony home. That’s more important than pie.”

“Sacrilege,” Dean said.

“What is?”

Dean shook his head. “Nothing trumps pie.”

“Not even brothers?” Darien asked, smiling.

“Touché,” Dean replied and nodded.

When they got close enough, Molly poked Charles with her cane, forcing him to relinquish the chair he had recently plopped into. With a grunt, Charles rose and went to stand next to a fidgety Cheyenne. Dean spotted the two ice cold bottles of Budweiser, moisture trickling tantalizingly down the amber glass on the table, nestled between a pitcher of ice water and a stack of empty plastic cups.

“What are you’ns standin’ ‘round for?” Molly shouted as Dean sat in the cheap, aluminum chair. “Tony, go home and sleep. Darien, ain’t you got work in the morning? And Charles? Take Cheyenne into the house and inspect the lines. Knock on Sadhana’s door on your way.” She looked at Dean. “You’ll drink a glass of water first, boy.”

“I’m fine. Thanks,” he said, amused at how fast everyone scattered.

“Don’t argue,” Molly said, pausing to light a cigarette. “Everyone who comes here has a drink. Every time. So, drink.” She lifted a half-full plastic cup and held it out for him.

“Act like it’s holy water,” he mumbled. He drank the water, eyeing Molly as he gulped. Finished, he added the cup to the group on the table.

“It is,” she finally said. She closed her eyes and drew deeply on the cigarette. A few seconds later, she exhaled and said, “Every ice cube, kid. Shit loads of water blessed by Father Dimitri on Monday and Thursday, made into ice cubes by us. We all got holy water running through our veins.” She cast him a sideways glance. “You want a cigarette?”

“No —“

“Right. You’re fine. Can’t smoke in front of Ro. Poor baby starts screaming. Apparently, she’s seen me die in a fire.”

“She said that?”

“Not in so many words,” Molly said, taking another drag. “First day we met, I came out here for a smoke and she went ape-shit, crying and begging me to stop. Poor little thing. I figured I can puff out of view while she’s here.”

Dean nodded and picked up a bottle of beer. He tipped it toward Molly, then took a drink, savoring the thoughtfulness. “So,” he started, “how many of these are yours?”

“None of them’s mine,” Molly said when her laughter died down. “Seriously. I look like somebody’s momma? Most of ‘em come here ‘cause they need a place and they agree to follow my rules. Cheyenne, she’s a stray, kicked out when she got knocked up. Couldn’t have her on the street, ya know? Charles, his daddy used to run my security, then he got hisself shot. Janet, you ain’t met her yet, she’s the youngest of one of my girls. Tony and Darien, their momma took over my house for me.”

Dean slowly lowered the bottle from his mouth. “Did you say ‘house’? As in —“

“Yep,” Molly said. She dropped her cigarette butt in the cup he had discarded. “Had me a, uh, cat house we’ll call it with the little one around.” She jerked her head toward the buildings in front of her. “Down Johnstown, by the warehouses. Good little operation. Janelle, she took over for me, oh, about a year before the SucroCorp bastards ran us out.”

Sadhana emerged from 3-D, two doors down from where they sat, carrying a blue and white baby monitor receiver and a tumbler half full of a pale amber. She had gathered her hair into a high ponytail and pulled a sweatshirt over her Browns’ T-shirt. After a curt nod to Dean, she held out her glass.

“My ice melted. Can you scoop a couple of cubes out of the water and plop them in?”

Molly nodded and did just that, moving the empty lawn chair from her side and placing it in front of Dean as she did. Dean watched as Sadhana sat, took a sip of the watered down whiskey and sighed.

“Hard to get her down?” Molly asked.

“Yeah,” Sadhana replied before taking another drink. “We had to draw a bit and then,” she glowered at Dean, “I had to deal with a four-year old’s crush. I really wanted to wait, say, I don’t know, twelve more years before I had to ask some pimply faced kid, ‘what are your intentions?’ Or look them square in the eye and warn, ‘You make my kid cry, I _will_ hunt you down and I _will_ kill you.’ In my best Liam Neeson voice.”

“My intentions are one hundred per cent honorable,” Dean said, glancing at Molly when she guffawed.

“Good to know,” Sadhana said, with a single nod. “Oh, I figured out the connection with the liquor drive-through. If those guys really are trying to get to us.”

“Detectives seem to think so,” Molly offered.

“I agree,” Dean said, finishing his beer. “The manager killed the same way as your ex-, by guys looking for him? Definitely related. And you’re the key. Well, not you but—“

“I get it. Anyway, that’s the drive-through Jeff worked at after we first separated. I moved closer to work, and he followed me. He did that for three years, following us, and then totally disappeared for a year, before, you know, he started — You know about that?” she asked Dean.

“The tirade on the front lawn? Yeah.”

“So, yeah.” Sadhana took another sip. Leaning back, she crossed her legs, repeatedly pointing her toes toward the ground then skyward.

“When did he start all that ranting bull?” Dean asked. He watched as she thought over the question, searching the liquor for the best way to respond.

After a long, drawn out sigh, Sadhana said, “Six months after we were married. He started talking about my role in the future Apocalypse. He got help, and was better for a bit but when he found out I was pregnant, he flipped. That’s when I kicked his ass out, filed for divorce and started moving around to get away from him. So,” she took another sip. “Five years ago would be the best guess.”

“Did he know where you work?”

“Knew the last place. I’ve switched companies since then. Wait. Do you think they’ll come after people at work? God, if—”

Dean put up a hand. “I think they’re going to interrogate anyone who might know where you are. They will try _anything_ to get your daughter. And they can do some powerful shit.”

“Like what else?” Molly asked.

“Simplest?” Dean shrugged. “Possessing a friend, or a colleague, so that you’ll trust them enough to bring them to her.”

“Okay but what do we do?” Sadhana asked. She started to swing her leg back and forth.

“Can you get time off?” Dean asked.

Sadhana shrugged. “I can work from anywhere. I mean, I have some meetings to go to in person, but so long as I get my project done, my team does their part—”

“You can use my place to Skype and video conference,” Molly offered. “It’s all set up for personal consultations. No one’ll know. Well, unless they’ve bought a reading.”

“In your house?” Dean asked.

“Nah,” Molly answered, lighting another cigarette. “I only do online readings these days. Easier. We got a set up in 3-B.”

“Can you handle that?” Dean asked. Sadhana nodded again. “Right. Then, let’s see. Where’s the most boring place around here you’ve lived?”

Sadhana took a deep breath, drained her glass then said, “It’s a tie: Grove City or Canal Winchester.”

Dean laughed and clapped his hands. “Canal Winchester, it is. Fucking perfect. Tomorrow we’ll go into your office, claim you’re going into a protection program,” he suggested.

“You can do that?”

“No,” Dean admitted. “But your employer doesn’t have to know. They know about Jeff, right?” Sadhana nodded. “And the latest has been on the news. Ask your boss for a meeting, I’ll go in with you, and explain that for your safety you’re going under protection. Get some things from your office, make it look like you’ll be back, drop a hint to someone you know will spread the word that you’re moving back there. Then we see if anyone bites. They might not,” he admitted with a shrug. “If they do, we can flush the culprit out. If they haven’t gotten to your office yet, then I’ll hunt them down while they look for you. You’ll have to cut ties with your friends and boyfriend until it blows over.”

Oh, holy shit,” Sadhana said. “I need more whiskey for this. Anyone else?”

“I ain’t gonna say no,” Molly replied.

“Same,” Dean added. He watched as Sadhana rose and disappeared behind the door to 3-D.

Molly smacked him on the arm. “Cut your ties with your boyfriend? That the best you got?”

 

~*~

 

Missouri opened the door and smiled when she saw her visitors standing under the porch light. “Well, as I live and breathe!”

“Sorry to drop by unannounced,” Jenny said.

“No, no,” Missouri replied, waving their concerns aside as she opened the door wider. “Come in.”

“We can’t,” Jenny said, “But—“

“I saw you at my game last week,” Richie interrupted. “Did you see my goal?”

“I sure did,” Missouri answered with a wider smile. “That was pretty exciting. How’s Sari doing in high school?”

“That’s why we can’t come in,” Jenny said. “She’s at a party, and we’ve got to go pick her up.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a large brown envelope. “This came to the house, addressed to you. I should’ve brought it by earlier, but it kept slipping my mind. Hope it wasn’t too important.”

Missouri took the enveloped and turned it over, inspecting the spidery handwriting. “Probably not. I wasn’t told to expect anything.”

“I’m surprised they even delivered it without a stamp.”

“Hmmm. That is curious. Thanks for bringing it by.” Missouri looked up and smiled. “Everything okay at the house?”

“Excellent. The bathroom renovations are done,” Jenny rolled her eyes. “Finally.”

“You comin’ to my game next week? Last one for the season,” Richie asked.

“Wouldn’t miss it for anything,” Missouri said.

As she watched them leave, she opened the envelope, pulling out a sheet of notebook paper, a message written in the same spidery handwriting and a purple envelope, written in a distinctly different style. Turning to go into the house, she began to read the letter.

 

~*~

 

Dean cracked open his eyelids and surveyed the small living room. The coffee table in front of the sofa bed was now covered with his travel kit, laptop, journal and a stack of papers he’d scribbled notes on. About four feet in front of that was the L-shaped counter that separated the living and dining rooms from the kitchen area. Somewhere in the kitchen, a clock rang seven times, causing Dean to mentally groan at the idea he’d had only four hours sleep after the planning filibuster they’d carried out. To the right of the counter, at a table with an agonisingly bright blue tablecloth, sat Roshani dressed in a red and black T-shirt, her feet swinging arhythmically under the table, her eyes fixed on him. Without looking down, she scooped up a spoonful of cereal and aimed for her mouth, milk dribbling. Not wanting to give away his advantage, he closed his eyes again.

“Mommy?” he heard in what he assumed was Roshani’s quiet yell. “Why’s he not awake yet?”

He heard Sadhana enter the room from the back of the house, her footfalls soft as she padded in, stopped then went into the kitchen. He wondered how she’d managed to sleep at all given all that was going on.

“Is he sick?” Roshani whispered, her kicking silent.

“He’s very tired, sweetie,” Sadhana said as she poured water. “Tony had a big scare and Dean brought him home. Very late.”

“So Tony’s not scared no more?” she asked.

“Any more,” Sadhana corrected. “Maybe just a little bit. Everybody’s a little bit scared.”

Dean heard Roshani’s feet bang against her chair as she resumed slurping her breakfast. Water poured into a container and a toaster popped. A slow drip was followed by a hiss and a heavenly smell.

“Coffee,” Dean exclaimed and sat up. “I’m awake.” He flipped the sheet aside and swung his legs off the sofa and on to the carpet. When he looked into the dining room, Roshani was grinning, milk dripping off her chin.

“I have a picture what I drawed you,” she said.

“Drew,” Sadhana said. She was bundled in a purple bathrobe, her hair wrapped in a Disney Princess towel. She turned to Dean. “The coffee will take a few minutes. There’s still hot water.”

“Gotcha,” Dean said as he rose. “I’ll be back in a jiffy and then you can show me the picture. Sound like a plan?”

Roshani nodded, once, sharply.

When he returned, dressed in a blue suit, crisp white shirt, tie hanging loose around his neck, Sadhana was seated at the table, her hair out of the towel, a half eaten piece of toast to her left, her laptop at her right. Dean draped his jacket over the back of the chair. Sadhana raised her cup of coffee in a silent salute.

“Everything set for today?” he asked as he sat down.

“Yes,” she said, closing the laptop. “My boss just responded. He’ll see me at nine. I sent Kirsty an email asking to have a word with her afterwards. You’ll come in with me?”

“Like we agreed.” Dean lifted the mug of coffee then leaned over toward Roshani. “I hear you have a picture you want me to see?”

Roshani slid the open notebook toward him. “See?”

Dean looked closely at the page: two stick figures lying on top of each other, a wavy red line running to the bottom of the page from what Dean thought might have been their heads.

“What is this?” he asked.

Roshani leaned toward him and tsked. “You’re not very good.”

“Roshani,” Sadhana warned. “Be nice.”

“No, I’m not,” Dean admitted. “But then, you can help me get better at it, right?”

Roshani nodded, then pointed at the page. “See? Bampires. She’s biting the man. That’s very naughty.”

“Oh, vampires,” Dean said. “You’re right, it is very naughty. Do you know where this is?”

“Choochoo. It’s a song,” Roshani answered.

Dean looked at Sadhana, perplexed, his eyebrow arched as he silently asked for an explanation.

“Chattanooga,” Sadhana said. She rose and took her dishes. “Glenn Miller’s ‘Chattanooga Choo Choo’,” she explained as she went into the kitchen.

“Right. Do you know when, Roshani?”

Roshani looked at the picture, sucking her lower lip between her teeth. Grabbing her box of crayons, she pulled out the white one and scribbled along the bottom of the page.

“Snow?” Dean asked. When she nodded, her eyes twinkling, he added, “Good. That’s ages away.”

“You two keep chatting,” Sadhana said. “I’m going to finish getting ready and then we can go.”

“So, princess polka dot,” Dean started after Sadhana had left him to fend for himself.

“Noooo,” Roshani interrupted, swinging her head from side to side, her braid threatening to hit him in the face. “I’m not a princess. I’m a ladybug. There were ladybugs all around my room last night.”

“How did they get into your room? I thought your window was locked closed?”

“ _He_ bringed them. To make the bad dream go away.”

Dean tapped on the notebook. “Was this your bad dream?”

Roshani lifted one shoulder. Her feet stopped swinging.

“Okay,” Dean said. “Does your friend visit you during the day, too? Or only at night?”

“Bedtime,” Roshani answered. She focussed her attention on the open notebook, tracing the figures she had drawn with her fingernail.

Dean put his finger under her chin and turned her to look at him. “So, when it’s your bedtime—“

“No. His bedtime. He always wears his jammies.”

Dean leaned back in the chair and smiled. “Right,” he said. “And he brought the ladybugs—“

“He said ‘cause they’re good for flowers and they eat bad bugs.”

“That’s what I hear,” Dean said with a nod. “At least he didn’t bring bees.” He finished his coffee, took Roshani’s bowl and spoon and rose, walking into the kitchen.

“Do you wanna see the secret?” Roshani asked.

He turned around to answer just as Sadhana appeared from the hallway. Dressed simply in a short, black skirt and a grey silk blouse, her hair pulled up into a loose bun, she took his breath away. He felt as if he'd been caught in the midst of a conspiracy that had suddenly been broadcast to the world. She looked at him, at her daughter, shook her head in confusion then went to sit at the dining room table.

“Secret?” she asked, putting on a pair of black shoes.

Dean fumbled for an answer, but finally came out with, “Roshani’s imaginary friend. Who isn’t imaginary.”

“You’ve seen him?” Sadhana asked.

“Not here,” Dean said. “But he’s harmless.” He tapped his right temple and shrugged.

“You know who it is? You know him personally?” Sadhana asked. She packed her laptop into a soft briefcase before she turned to await his answer.

“He’s been to Heaven and Hell for me.”

“Mommy! ‘Scuse me! Mommy!” Roshani screamed.

“So, not so stupid. I was right to trust what he said?” Sadhana grinned, then turned back to her daughter. “Yes?”

“Can Dean take me so’s I can show him the tunnels?”

“Dean’s wearing a suit, honey.”

“It’s fine,” Dean said. “We’ll take your car, so I’ll meet you out front.” He waved his hand before him. “Lead the way, Ladybug.”

Roshani hop-skipped to the door. Then stooped suddenly. She spun around and put her hand up. “Wait!” Dean stopped. “Are you brave? The tunnels are scary.”

“I think I can handle it,” Dean said, stepping forward and holding out his hand.

Roshani hesitated then slid her hand into his. “They’re very smelly.”

“Alex smelly?” Dean asked.

Roshani laughed. “No, worms. They smell like worms. And the walls are salty!”

“No licking dirt walls!” Sadhana yelled as they left the house.

 

~*~

 

In a dark, dank attic in northwest Montana, Crowley stood over the cold body draped over the parchment. Fingers that had moments before paused writing in mid-sentence were now twitching in automatic reflex.

“What the hell happened here?” Crowley demanded. He turned to face the group: Leonard and Olivier — two of his most trusted leaders in Hell — and a select gaggle of underlings waiting to do his bidding. Half of the underlings looked as if they were going to vomit from their meat suits at any second.

“I asked you—“ he started again. The body jerked against the desk.

“Looks like he had a heart attack,” one of the underlings said.

“Looks like?” Crowley yelled. He turned back to the corpse of the middle-aged accountant and grabbed his wrist. “No pulse. What did you morons do to him?”

“Nothing,” an underling stuttered.

“Nothing? He’s dead!” Crowley turned to the two standing in the back. “Well, Frick and Frack? What now?”

“He hasn’t given us much of use,” Leonard said, stepping forward to sniff around the body. “I suggest we find another prophet.”

“There are still other possibilities on your list,” Olivier said. He remained in the back of the room, looking at the manicure he had recently experienced. “What exactly does the prophecy say about the prophet we’re looking for?”

“The kid said that this prophet would emerge now and wage war against us in the future,” Crowley summarized. “A war that could prove more debilitating than anything Lucifer went up against.”

“Or you,” Olivier added. “Your reign has been anything but beneficial.”

“You’ve benefitted from it,” Leonard reminded him. “Under Lucifer you were relegated to the Seychelles. Now you have North America.”

“And you’ve moved from the Bering Strait to the European Union,” Olivier retorted. “What’s your point?”

“Boys!” Crowley yelled. “We’re results driven! Take your peons and find me another prophet!”

Crowley disappeared with a snap of his fingers. After a glare to Olivier, Leonard faded from the room with four of the gaggle.

Olivier turned to the remaining three demons. “While they dick around, find me the real prophet. I want her under my control. But if anyone gets wind of this, I _will_ send you to play with angels in a cage.”

“She’s disappeared,” said one of the two men in the group. Nervously, he smoothed his gelled hair and straightened his tie.

“And whose fault is that?” Olivier demanded.

“When you—“ the female began but wisely stopped under Olivier’s wilting glare.

Olivier shifted his shape until, at nine feet tall, he towered over his chosen group. “That damned angel has hidden her. Keep looking until you find her and bring her to me. Kill anyone or anything that gets in the way of or telegraphs our ascension.” Anger spent, he shrank back down. “But be circumspect. We have time on our side. We’ll find others, they’ll yield nothing of use. By the time Crowley has killed the second one, the child will be mine.”

 

~*~

 

“Morning, Agent McGuinn. Same as usual?”

“That’d be great, Brenda,” Dean answered, placing his hand on the small of Sadhana’s back. “People are joining us, so can we get a pitcher of water and five glasses?”

“Sure thing,” the waitress said. “Partner?”

“No sign yet,” Dean sighed. “Thanks for asking, though.”

With a nod, he led Sadhana to a table in the back, and pulled out the chair next to the window. He waited until she sat down, then sat next to her. “When everyone gets here, don’t fidget or chew on your lip.”

“What?” she asked, turning to look at him.

“That’s what you do when you’re nervous or upset,” Dean said with a half grin. “So does Roshani.”

“Oh, God,” Sadhana groaned. She started to aimlessly trace designs on the table. “How do I not be nervous? We’re lying to everybody to save my daughter from demons.”

“Phase one, the office, is over. This is phase two.” Dean grabbed her hand. “You’re doing fine,” he said. “I’ll let you know if you start to crumble.”

At the entrance, he saw Brenda show a man his age in a black shirt with a clerical collar where they were sitting. Tall, thin, with thick, close-cropped black hair, he walked toward them hesitantly. His hand automatically went into his pocket and fingered something. Dean gave Sadhana’s hand a gentle squeeze of encouragement and then rose.

“Father Dimitri?” he asked, extending out his hand.

“Dean Winchester,” Father Dimitri said. He pumped Dean’s hand up and down enthusiastically. “I’ve wanted to meet you and thank you for a long time. Monica and Charlie are good friends of mine.”

“Come again?”

“Salvation, Iowa. I knew when Semangelof told me. His description of you and your brother matched the two men exactly.” He pulled out the chair across from Sadhana. “Morning. How are you holding up?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” she answered with a hesitant smile. “What’s this about Iowa?”

“Nothing. I’ll explain later,” Dean said quickly. “I saw the tunnels and panic room. Your idea?”

Father Dimitri shook his head. “No, Semangelof’s. He knew about the facility under the Wonder Bread store, gave us instructions to add salt to the whitewash, then he painted the sigils on. He blasted the tunnels after we got Molly’s okay and cleared the buildings on top.”

“The rungs leading down?” Dean asked.

“Iron,” Father Dimitri said with a nod. “From a scrapyard. The frame for the ventilation fan is also iron. We checked.”

“Sounds thorough.” Dean leaned forward. “Did you bring some?”

Father Dimitri lifted a silver flask from his jacket pocket. “Are you sure you want to involve the police?”

“Too late.” Dean jerked his head toward the entrance. “They’re here.” He turned to Sadhana. “You ready?”

“Oh, fucking hell,” she whispered. “Sorry, Father.”

He smiled weakly. “My sentiments exactly.” Pulling the pitcher of water toward him, he emptied the contents of the flask into it, then poured five glasses of water.

Dean rose and flagged the detectives down as they spoke to Brenda. He glanced down at Sadhana and winked.

“Detectives. Glad you could join us.”

“Make it quick,” Andy said, pulling out the chair next to Dean. Carlos sat across from Sadhana and drank the water, his eyes never leaving her. “Some of us have work to do.”

“I know,” Dean said, sitting down. His foot went to rest on Sadhana’s. “Detectives Andy Durnak and Carlos Mercadé, meet Father Dimitri Kafasis and Sadhana Miller.”

“The vic’s—“

“Yep,” Dean said. “Sadhana’s in my protective custody.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, cut the shit,” Andy said, unbuttoning his jacket. Brenda arrived with coffee and poured. He waited until she left, then continued. “We know there’s no McGuinn and Crosby assigned to this case. So, who the hell are you and why is there a priest at the table?”

Dean pressed his foot down harder. “I’m here to protect Sadhana and her daughter. We’re moving her —“

“Who are you and why is there a priest at this table?” Andy repeated. “Mrs. Miller —“

“I’m fine and we trust him,” she said.

“Oh, seriously, fuck this shit,” Andy exclaimed.

“Andy, man, watch your mouth. Father Dimitri, isn’t it?” Carlos asked. “I went to a lecture you gave at OSU. Good stuff. Wanna tell us what’s really going on?”

“Gladly,” he answered, taking a drink of water. He waited until Dean nodded slightly, then said, “The murders, at Sadhana’s, at the drive-through, the vandalism going on in the area, they’re all related.”

“No shit,” Andy mumbled. “Do you happen to have a name or two so we can catch these guys?”

“You won’t,” Father Dimitri said. “But Dean will.” He waited a bit. He could feel the sweat on his forehead and under his arms threaten to give him away. It was growing blatantly obvious to him that he wasn’t cut out for this kind of work. “Because they’re not human.”

Andy leaned very close to Dean’s face. “What the hell is this bullshit?”

“How many humans do you know can rip, literally rip, limbs off grown men?” Dean asked.

Andy sat back, a low rumble coming from his throat. Carlos drank his coffee then slowly and deliberately put the cup back on to the saucer. “The things around the second body?” he asked quietly.

“Wings,” Dean said. “They appear when angels die down here. It’s also why his body disappeared.”

“His name was Semangelof,” Father Dimitri supplied. “He was here to protect Sadhana and her daughter.”

“Right,” Andy grumbled. “No offense, but lady, this is ab—“

Sadhana’s head whipped around and she glared at the older detective. Her mouth opened and snapped shut when Dean pressed on her foot again.

Carlos turned the cup around, staring at the handle as he did. “The sulphur? It was all over the window sills.” He glanced at Andy. “And in the liquor store. Please tell me it’s not what I suspect it is.”

Dean leaned back in his chair. “Demons leave signs. Sulphur residue usually.”

“What do you want from us?” Carlos asked.

Andy pinched the bridge of his nose. “Oh for fuck’s—“

“Shut up, Andy,” Carlos reprimanded. “You yourself said these cases weren’t natural. Well, they’re not.” He looked at Dean. “What do you want us to do?”

Dean laced his fingers together. “Keep investigating the murders. I’m moving the Millers out of sight.” He turned to Sadhana. “Where’s it, again?”

“Canal Winchester,” Sadhana said quietly. She bit the inside of her cheek when Father Dimitri started to choke on his coffee.

“Right,” Dean said, releasing her foot. “All I need is to be left to hunt these assholes down and send them back to Hell.”


	5. Chapter 5

**June 16, 2014**

 

“Thanks, Missouri. Really appreciate it. I know Sam will, too,” Dean said, and added with a weary sigh, “When we find him.” He stabbed a final period on the note he had jotted down, and put the cell phone on the table next to the laptop.

Pouring another finger of whiskey, he opened the map Sam created before all this shit had started and zoomed out to find “Columbus, Kansas”. Missouri had said a cacophony of spirits — her words exactly — had screamed that Sam couldn’t be found where he was being sought. When interrogated, all they yielded was “Columbus”. She started where she could, scoured the city, and came up empty handed.

Dean put a black place marker over the city’s name and zoomed back to Columbus, Ohio. As he had done for the past six weeks, he resumed his nightly skimming of the local news and monitoring of police action, checked his fake email for signs of Sam, and tried not to let the disappointment get to him yet again. 

He heard the whimpers, the soft cries, but before his brain could process what his reaction should be, he heard another, more familiar voice, muffled but calm and determined. Dean rose and walked down the hallway, pausing to glance into Sadhana’s room where she lay curled up on her side in a deep sleep, then turned to stand in the doorway to Roshani’s room. There, among the stuff animals scattered across the floor and on the furniture decorated with scenes from various animated Disney movies, was Castiel — leaning over the bed, awkwardly smoothing the hair from Roshani’s face.

With a glance toward Dean, Castiel silently picked up the notebook and box of crayons that had been left on a small, pink table. Castiel sat on the bed, blocking Roshani’s view of the door and handed her the book and crayons. He turned his head and gestured beyond the door, before returning his attention to the child.

Dean padded back out to the front of the house, checking on Sadhana again as he passed. He grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and seated himself at the dining room table to wait.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel said when he emerged from the bedroom.

“Cas. Haven’t seen you for a while,” Dean gave up on keeping the sarcasm out of his voice. “About three months. How have you been?”

“I have been well.” 

Castiel pulled out a chair and awkwardly seated himself at the table. He smoothed the tablecloth, leaning closer to examine the flowers embroidered in a ring around the middle. Dean waited impatiently, clenching and unclenching his jaw, rolling the bottle along its ridged bottom, back and forth on the table. 

“I have never heard of a prophet so young,” Castiel eventually said. “I can see why Semangelof was so attached. It pains me, too, to hear her cry. To know that the prophet sees so much evil. And yet I am grateful the prophet doesn’t truly understand what it is that she does see. There will come a day when she will comprehend the magnitude of her visions. In the meantime, I do what little I can to comfort the prophet, to give her guidance.” He looked up from the petite purple flowers scattered around the tablecloth. “Which I am afraid, I cannot do for you, Dean.”

“Come again?”

“I have searched, we have searched everywhere and cannot find a trace of Sam.”

“Everywhere?” Dean asked. 

“Yes. Many are searching for him as we speak,” Castiel said. “There are no signs of Sam in Heaven or Hell.” He cast his eyes back down to the tablecloth. “Sentinels were placed at the Gates to Purgatory. One ventured in to see if Sam could be found there, but —” He lifted a shoulder, dejectedly. “She was pulled from my grasp as I lifted her out of the Gate and she was devoured.”

“Shit, Cas. I’m sorry,” Dean said. He rubbed his forehead. “Molly and Missouri both said Sam isn’t dead.”

“We concur,” Castiel said with a nod. “We believe that is why he cannot be found. I will keep searching, Dean. I promise.”

“Thanks.”

“But the situation with the prophet is of supreme importance,” Castiel said, shaking his head. 

“She has a name. Roshani. Sounds better if you use it.”

“Roshani,” Castiel repeated. “Crowley has been obsessed with other, much more minor prophets. One of these minor prophets disappeared a few weeks ago. He has since died. Another disappeared from his accounting firm this week.” 

“Crowley again?”

“We believe so. There are any number of minor prophets scattered around at any given time.”

"Let's hope he stays distracted." Dean took a drink while watching Castiel listen to the sounds, or lack of sounds, coming from the back of the house. “When are you going to take over guardian angel duties permanently?”

Castiel’s brow furrowed in confusion. “I don’t understand. There is no angel assigned to the– to Roshani. I only come because I hear her cries.”

“The situation is of supreme importance but doesn’t warrant a guardian angel?” Dean asked, getting up from his chair. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Needing to channel his bubbling unease, he started to pace the small area in front of the front door. 

“You will have noticed that she hasn’t has a nightmare since your arrival. Until tonight.”

“Wait a goddamned minute. You expect me to protect this kid and her mother?” He stormed over to Castiel, hovered over him. Lowering his voice to a whisper, he said, “People who get involved with us, with me, die. I do not want the death of these two on my conscience.”

“I understand, Dean,” Castiel said, rising from the chair. “But this is out of my hands. I myself am not supposed to be here, to interfere with the – Roshani’s destiny.”

Frustrated, Dean turned away from Castiel, his hands clenching into fists. “Then why _are_ you here?”

“I made a promise to a friend.”

When Dean turned around again, Castiel was gone. 

“Sonuvabitch! Just fucking awesome!” Dean grabbed the empty bottle and stormed into the kitchen. He stomped on the lever to the small recycling bin, flipping up the top, and slammed the bottle into the bin, panicking when it clanged against the other glass items. He closed his eyes, counted to ten and slowly turned around to see if anyone had emerged from their rooms. 

With a sigh of relief, Dean left the kitchen and started pacing the living room. He needed a plan, needed to get his head around this, find Sam, ensure Sadhana and Roshani were safe and high tail it out of town. He ran through his limited options, through their limited options, and came up with an image from last week: Roshani, her face painted, dressed in pink and purple, butterfly wings on her back, flapping her arms up and down, running silently (“Butterflies don’t make sounds,” Molly had explained) across the blacktop outside the townhouses. Sadhana had been sitting in the shade, next to Molly, both nursing iced teas, Sadhana trying to concentrate on the latest phase of her project. He had started working on Darien's car...

He slammed the chair back under the table and walked to the front door. He needed to get out and run, expend some energy and clear his head. 

“Where are you going?”

Startled, Dean turned around to see Sadhana standing in the hallway, dressed in pale blue satin shorts, a matching tank top and what he had learned was her piece of comfort clothing: a lavender terry cloth bathrobe, worn thin at the elbows, remains of appliquéd flowers could be seen to the left of the collar, the frayed hem swirled around her ankles. The fact that she stood there – hair in disarray, eyes heavy from sleep, bathrobe held open by the hands on her hips — did nothing to solve the sudden guilt and dry mouth.

“Dean?”

“I-I-I was going to go for a run,” he said, swivelling to point at the door.

Her eyebrow arched upward. “It’s one in the morning.”

Dean swallowed. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she crossed her arms over her chest. Dean swore there was a growing lump cutting off his air. “You can’t go running in this neighborhood. The roads aren’t lit. The drivers are insane. People get hit, even during daylight hours."

“I need to…” Dean fumbled, trying desperately to not focus on her legs, her chest, or the smirk of her face. “I, uh, need to expend some energy.” Even as it was coming out of his mouth, he regretted the lame excuse.

“I guess suicide runs do expend energy,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief. Dean found himself fascinated with the way her hair brushed across the remnants of the embroidered flowers. “Were you just talking to someone?”

“What?” Dean asked. “Oh, yeah. Castiel, Roshani’s friend—“

Sadhana’s eyes narrowed. “Who isn’t imaginary and is actually quite trustworthy?”

“You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

“Nope.” She uncrossed her arms and put her hands back on her hips. “Anyway…”

“He, uh,” Dean started, scratching behind his ear. “Never mind.”

“Well, he hasn’t been around for a while. Must be your calming influence,” Sadhana said. She walked into the living room, around to the sofa.

“Oh, for fuck’s— That’s what he said,” Dean said. He watched as she sat down, glanced quickly at the laptop, then up at him. Waiting for him to speak, she sucked her lower lip in between her teeth, tucked her feet underneath her legs. “Look, Sadhana, me being here is not good for all of you.”

Sadhana’s brows furrowed. “Why not?” 

“Because people, uh, we’re, I’m,” Dean stuttered. “We Winchesters are cursed.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sadhana said and put her feet in the ground. “Is this my old place?” she asked pointing to the screen.

Dean walked around the coffee table and sat next to Sadhana. The faint perfume of Ivory soap distracted him from her question, until he followed her direction. “The red pin is, yeah.”

“So the two red ones are the murders?” She waited while he nodded, not looking at her. “Blue?”

“Probable demonic activity.”

“Uh huh. With the dates, got it. Pink?”

“Recent violence,” Dean said and shrugged. “May or may not have anything to do with the rest of it.“

“Nothing to do with us, you mean.” Sadhana twisted to the side, leaned over, her hair brushing against the keyboard. “Do you see the pattern?”

Unable to see the laptop through the veil of jet-black curls, Dean turned to face her. “What?” he said after he swallowed around the lump in his throat.

Sadhana pointed at the laptop. “Those place markers have little to do with you or your brother. As a matter of fact, since you moved into the complex, very little has happened that has to do with us, either.” She put her hand on his arm. “I’m not saying that nothing will happen in the future. But we all feel safer with you here.” She moved her hand to his shoulder. “What about the yellow ones?”

“Where my brother might be. Hospitals, motels, places like that. We have a system. Had a system to meet up—”

Sadhana gathered her hair and twirled it over her shoulder. “No sign of him.”

“No,” Dean said softly. “Been six weeks.” 

“I know,” she said. She leaned forward and picked up the notebook. “Are you going to Kansas?”

“No. A friend, psychic like Molly, called. She went to Columbus, the one in Kansas and did a search.”

Sadhana closed the laptop, and pushed it aside. She sat down on the edge of the coffee table and took his hands in hers. “Okay, the demon… thing disappeared with your brother. They can go anywhere, right? So what if your friend’s on to something and he got dumped in another Columbus? And he can’t get word to you for some reason?”

Dean turned her hands over then smiled ruefully. “Do you know how many Columbuses there are?”

“No,” she said. Placing his hands on her sides, she straddled his lap. “But we can find out tomorrow.”

“You mean this morning?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” she said leaning into his face. “For now, let’s find a safer way to expend all that excess energy.”

~*~

“Well?” Olivier said, leaning back in the chair, his feet resting on the desk’s blotter.

“She’s not there,” the shapeshifter in female form responded. “Most of this meat suit’s information is bogus. A case of the telephone game.”

“What _did_ you find out, then? What can I use?”

“She showed up at her present place of employment with some FBI agent. He’s the one who forced her and the child to move back to her old stomping ground. That’s why we suspected she would check in there. Friends, and all that.”

“Friends,” Olivier said and spat on the limbless body beside the chair. “Where is her ‘old stomping ground’?”

“Canal Winchester,” the short, blond male said. “Southeast of Columbus, Ohio.”

Olivier slammed his hands onto the desk and jumped up. “Did you say ‘Winchester’?” His face began to redden with anger.

“Yes," the blond responded, squelching the urge to smooth back his gelled hair.

“What did this so-called FBI agent look like?” Olivier asked the female.

She shrugged. “Meat suit didn’t see him but her friend said he was tall, thin and good looking. Actually, she used the phrase 'well hung'.”

“Winchester!” Olivier walked over the body and around the desk. “I thought we got rid of him when I sent his brother away.”

“Obviously not,” the taller male demon mumbled.

“What did you say?” Olivier thundered, his face turning crimson, his eyes tar-black. He walked back around the desk and kicked the disembodied head across the room.

The taller demon straightened his posture: if he was going to be executed Olivier-style, best to do it looking good. "I said 'obviously not'. Seems to me he's even more determined than before."

Olivier's color cooled as he resumed his pacing. "You and you," he said, pointing to the female and the blond demons. "Find me that child prophet. She'll be with Winchester. He's obviously made the connection by now." He turned to the taller demon. "You find Crowley another prophet. He's getting frustrated with the one from Juarez. There's one in Windsor, Ontario. Get her to Crowley by the end of the week."

"And you?"

“I,” Olivier said, straightening his tie and picking at a speck of fuzz on his suit. “I’m going to make sure the other Winchester is when and where I put him."

~*~

“Good morning,” said a red-headed waiter, grabbing two menus and a piece of paper. “Table for three?”

“Tim,” a portly, middle-aged man jogged across the restaurant. “I’ll handle this.” He waited until the waiter left and said, “Sorry, Agent McGuinn. Tim just started on mornings.”

“What happened to Brenda?” Dean asked.

“Ah, she’s working nights, training a couple of new kids and closing up.” He waved his hand ahead of them “Your usual table in the back?”

“Thanks. We’re being met by two detectives, so if you could show them where we're sitting, I’d appreciate it,” Dean said. He kept one hand on the small of Sadhana’s back, the other was being tightly grasped by Roshani. 

"You ready for that soup, pr—, kitten?" Dean asked her.

Roshani, dressed in white and pink, large pink ribbons holding her ponytails, her face painted with a pink nose and long black whiskers, nodded. Her eyes were wide, taking in the noise and tumult around her. A stuffed orange and white kitten with a large blue satin ribbon dangled out of a pink Disney princess tote bag that she clamped tightly to her side. 

Dean led them to the far side of the table, facing the entrance. As he lifted Roshani into the booster seat, he whispered, “Don’t worry. We’ll get to the important stuff as soon as we talk to these people."

She nodded again and watched as Sadhana sat next to her. Sadhana pulled her closer and planted a kiss on top of her head. “What’s this important stuff I’m hearing?”

Dean opened his eyes as wide as he could, and shrugged, causing Roshani to burst into giggles. She put the bag on the table, placed the kitten on the windowsill and pulled out her notebook and box of crayons. 

“I’m going to draw mommy a picture,” she announced. “So’s she can tell the bad peoples.”

“Did they say what this is about, Dean?” Sadhana asked quietly.

“Just to come and make sure I brought you.” He leaned over and tapped the table. “Hey, kitten?” Roshani looked up. “If these men ask you any questions, you wait until your mom or me tells you you can answer them.”

“Are they bad mens?”

“No, but they don’t understand about your stories. So, let us decide, okay?”

“Okay, Dean.”

“Heads up,” Sadhana said. “They’re coming this way. With a laptop.”

Andy slammed the laptop on the table, pulled out the chair at the head of the table and sat down. 

“Morning, Dean, Sadhana, and who is the pretty little kitten in the corner?” Carlos asked as he pulled a chair out to sit next to Dean. 

Roshani watched their arrival without lifting her head. She glanced at Dean who shook his head.

“This is my daughter, Roshani, Detectives,” Sadhana answered. “Today she’s Marie—“

“From the Aristocats,” Carlos interrupted. “My eldest loves that movie. ‘Everybody wants to be a cat, Because a cat’s the only cat, Who knows where it’s at.’ That must be Toulouse on the table.” 

Roshani grinned, but kept on drawing, her eyes focussed on her creation.

“She shouldn’t be here. Reckless parenting to bring her,” Andy said. He opened up the laptop. “We need to show you some footage. Want you to identify the people in it. Make sure the kid doesn’t get out of her seat.”

While a waitress placed their orders on the table, Dean rose and moved to stand between Andy and Sadhana. He casually placed his hand on the back of her chair, kept his back to the rear wall. The laptop whirred into action, and the CCTV recording began.

“This is from yesterday, at about seven AM,” Carlos explained. He leaned back and watched everyone’s reaction, rather than watch the carnage again. “Do you recognize the building?”

“It looks like the building where I used to work in Grove City,” Sadhana answered. “If it is, my office was— Wait, that’s Yvette.” She looked at Carlos. “She’s always the first one in, except for the security guys. Seven every morning. Really nice, hard worker.”

“Keep watching,” Andy said.

“Sadhana, do you know that other woman?” Dean asked quietly. He didn’t like the way she had approached the receptionist’s desk, the way she encroached on Yvette’s personal space.

“Dean?” Roshani interrupted. “What color eyes are yours?”

“Green. Why?”

“Like mine. It’s for mommy.”

“It looks like Lorraine,” Sadhana answered. She looked up at Dean. “Kirsty’s best friend at work,” she explained softly. 

“Kirsty? The one you told you were moving back to Canal Winchester?” Dean asked.

Sadhana nodded, then returned her attention to the film. Lorraine was demanding something from Yvette, attempting to walk around the crescent-shaped desk to get to Yvette’s computer. Yvette was gesturing adamantly for Lorraine to back off, pointing at the CCTV camera. Lorraine looked briefly at the camera, eyes flashing, then returned her attention to Yvette. 

“What’s she taking out of her pocket?” Sadhana asked, leaning forward to get a closer look.

“Enough,” Dean demanded. “Turn it off. Sadhana doesn’t need to see this.”

“What?” Andy asked. “You know what’s coming next?”

“I’ve got a really good idea,” Dean answered. 

“Mommy! ‘Scuse me! Mommy!” Roshani interrupted. “I drawed you a picture to help you, mommy.”

Andy smashed the space bar, muttering “Dammit” under his breath. Carlos put up his hands in resignation. Dean turned the laptop around, and continued to watch the footage, while Sadhana took the notebook from Roshani.

“That’s lovely, sweetie.”

“It’s eyeses. See?” Roshani explained. “These eyeses are good peoples’. Brown like yours. Green like mines and Dean. Blue, like Jessie. Do you ‘member Jessie who played with me? And here are the bad peoples’ eyeses.” Dean straightened up as Roshani continued. “Black and yellow and red. The bad peoples' eyeses.”

“Roshani, have you seen anyone with bad eyes near the house?” Dean asked.

“No,” she answered. “I just drawed the bad ones.”

“What the hell is this shit?” Andy demanded.

“Detective—“ Sadhana warned.

“You said a bad word,” Roshani said.

“He did, didn’t he?” Carlos said, with a chuckle. “Detective Durnak should apologize for saying bad words.”

“I’ll give you bad words,” Andy mumbled.

Dean slammed his hand on the table and walked off, rubbing the back of his neck. Carlos jerked his head at Dean; Andy nodded. 

“Wanna share, _Agent_?” Andy asked.

“Dean,” Sadhana called out, her voice quivering. 

“It’s about Yvette, Sadhana,” Dean explained. “I’m sorry.”

“Dean,” Sadhana repeated, more insistent. She held up the notebook. “I know.”

On the page before the collection of eye colors, were two stick figures with triangle dresses. One was looking out of the page, a smile on her face; yellow ray-like lines framed her eyes. The other figure was horizontal. Her round face was three inches away from the body.

"That woman is a demon," Dean explained. "Like the one who was in Reynoldsburg."

“Are you sh— kidding me?” Andy snapped. 

“The eyes have it,” Dean said, rewinding the footage until he reached the spot where Lorraine looked at the camera. “Watch. Yvette’s are normal, and then … See?”

“Bad people eyes?” Roshani asked.

“‘Fraid so, kitten,” Dean answered. “How much sulfur was around the scene?”

“Sh— Bucket loads,” Andy said. “Place reeked.”

Dean returned to his seat. “Means there was another one there.”

“Interesting,” Carlos mumbled. “So Lorraine is possessed —“

“Actually, this one’s a shapeshifter,” Dean corrected. “Lorraine is probably already,” he glanced at Roshani slurping her tomato soup. “Already _morta_. You’ll find her eventually.”

Andy wiped bagel crumbs off his hands. “And you know this, how?” 

“First-hand experience.” Dean drank his coffee, keeping an eye on Sadhana as she processed what she had learned, as she chewed on her lip while avoiding his gaze. 

“How’d the kid know about it?”

Dean turned to look at the detectives, just as Father Dimitri jogged up to the table.

“Sorry to disturb,” he said. “I uh, I’ve been sent to tell you, Dean, that another prophet has been found —“

“ _Mortus_?” Dean asked.

“Yes, actually,” Father Dimitri said. “This makes three.”

“A prophet,“ Carlos repeated. He looked at his scowling partner, then at Sadhana. “Let me guess. Jeff—“

“No,” Sadhana and Dean said at the same time. Dean caught the detectives’ attention and glanced at Roshani.

“Oh, for f—“

“Detective Durnak!” Sadhana snapped. “And yes, that’s how she knew.”

“So, they’re after,” Carlos wagged his finger in Roshani’s direction, “what will they do if they catch their target?”

“Use then discard, both with extreme prejudice,” Dean said.

“And anyone is a possible possession target by the shapeshifter and who ever was off camera?” Carlos asked.

Andy groaned, crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back. “I call BS.”

“Andy, man,” Carlos said. “Go to church sometime. This stuff happens. Ask Father Dimitri.”

“It is true,” Father Dimitri said with a remorseful nod. 

“So how do we know if somebody’s possessed?” Carlos asked. “More importantly, how do we protect ourselves from being possessed?”

“Roshani told you: the eyes. As for the rest, holy water, amulets, tattoos, luck,” Dean answered.

“Tattoos?” Sadhana groaned. Off Dean’s puzzlement, she explained, “Pathological fear of needles. I have to step out of the office when Roshani gets her vaccinations.”

“Dean has a tattoo,” Roshani suddenly said. “Can we go do important stuff now? I’m tired of talking.”

Carlos smiled and leaned forward. “And what important stuff do you and Toulouse need to do?”

Roshani’s face lit up. “We gotta go get stuff for Mommy’s birthday! We’re gonna have a party!” Immediately her eyes went wide, her hand went to her mouth and Dean began to rub his forehead. “Oops,” Roshani said.

“God, and the day gets better,” Sadhana moaned. “I hate birthday parties.”

“Too late now,” Dean said, and winked at Roshani.

“Well, well,” Andy said with a chuckle. “When is this magnanimous event? And how old will you be? Sixteen?”

“Very funny, detective,” Sadhana said. “Thirty, thank you very much.”

“It’s on Saturday after Red-White-and-BOOM!” Roshani informed them, now on a roll. “Molly and Cheyenne’s making a chocolate cake with chocolate frosting and chocolate swirls on top!”

“Molly and Cheyenne,” Carlos repeated.

“Molly McArthur? This why you were there that night?” Andy narrowed his eyes. “You two shacking up together, is _that_ why you’re there?”

Dean shook his head. “Molly sent Cheyenne to find me. She gave me the message you heard—“

“From the dead guy,” Carlos said. “About your partner. So what’s your partner to you?”

“Sam’s my brother. He brought us here because of the kitten.”


	6. Chapter 6

Molly set up the table with the pitcher of ice water, plastic cups, cigarettes and lighter, then gently eased herself into her lawn chair to survey her tiny domain. After an unusually warm June day, the sun was leaving iridescent bands of orange and crimson as it began its descent. In the fading light, Dean was walking Darien through basic engine maintenance, with Charles overseeing procedures. Those who worked the day shifts were trickling back, stopping to chat and have the requisite drink before they went into their own homes for dinner. The few who worked evenings, Tony among them, were safe at their various jobs. 

Or so she prayed. 

Earlier in the day, Cheyenne had inflated a wading pool, placed it on the asphalt next to the Impala and Civic, so that Alex and Roshani-the-mermaid could splash their way to exhaustion. It had been a good diversion while Sadhana had sequestered herself in 3-B to video conference with her team down the road. It had been a true godsend when Detectives Durnak and Mercadé arrived and disappeared a short while later with Dean.

“Whoa,” Cheyenne said, pouring herself a glass of water. “Alex’s down like a light. Can I bum one?” She sat beside Molly, placed her baby monitor in her lap and took a cigarette from the offered pack. Molly flicked her lighter and Cheyenne leaned forward. Her eyes closed when she inhaled. 

“Dear God in Heaven, I needed that,” Cheyenne said as she exhaled. “Charles told Darien he’d take him to his friend’s auto shop and get it painted when it’s done.” 

Molly lit her own cigarette. “That the one in Blacklick?”

“Yeah,” Cheyenne answered. “Yay! Janet’s back,” she said pointing toward the bus stop on Stygler. 

A petite woman, Cheyenne’s age, her curly black hair cut pixie-style, jogged between the smaller buildings and made her way toward them. She slowed slightly as she passed the three men but didn’t stop since none looked up. She broke into a toothy grin when Molly held out a plastic cup.

“Hey,” Janet and Cheyenne said at the same time. Cheyenne patted the chair to her right. 

“They still at that piece of junk?” Janet asked.

“Almost done, Dean says,” Cheyenne answered. “Dar’s gonna drive us to the fireworks Friday. Go early and get us a good spot.”

“Wipe that goofy grin off your face, girl,” Molly teased. “How’s work at Block’s?”

“Awesome!” Janet chirped, nodding. “I get to close next week with Brenda. Boss said okay.”

“So you’re movin’ on up? Doin’ good?” Molly took a drag on her cigarette, noticing how Darien peeked at them from over his shoulder. Charles poked him with his elbow, bringing his focus back to whatever Dean was explaining. 

Damned hormone-laden kids. 

Sadhana put a pitcher of pale pink refreshment on the table. “Needs ice. Do we have any left?” 

“Bucket under the table,” Molly instructed. “Alcoholic?”

“No, watermelon. Sorry,” Sadhana said as she dumped ice into the pitcher. “It’s Roshani’s latest favorite. Made way too much.” Turning, she saw Dean read a text message on his phone then look at her, his smile tentative. She smiled back before she sat down next to Molly, putting her baby monitor on the table. Leaning forward, she looked at the two girls. “You guys are still going to the fireworks, right? Leaving Alex with us? Not chickening out?” Both nodded and giggled. “Did I say something?”

“No,” Cheyenne said, still giggling. “We were goofing around last night and decided you’re Sarah Connor. You know, bad ass mom hiding from things that want to take over the world. And sometimes, you look like an Indian version of her.”

“God, please tell me not Linda Hamilton. Specially not in _Terminator 2_.”

“No, no,” Cheyenne said, shaking her head. “The one from the TV show. Sometimes, though, you look like the Terminator girl. You know, the one that was in _Firefly_? All you need is a battle axe to swing.”

“Oh,” Janet said suddenly. “I have a shift on Saturday, so I’ll miss your party. “

Sadhana grimaced. “That’s fine, hon.” 

Janet nodded. “Brenda told me all about the flowers you sent for the funeral. She said it was really nice of you.”

Sadhana lowered her glass. “Brenda was at the funeral?”

“Yeah, sure,” Janet said. “The murdered lady and her are cousins. Said she saw Dean, called him something else but I didn’t correct her about none of it. Anyway, she remembered you from Block’s.”

“You’ns’ll excuse me,” Molly said and rose, walking rheumatically across the parking lot. 

The girls became embroiled in plans for Friday night, whispering and giggling. Sadhana followed Molly’s progress and noticed that Father Dimitri was suddenly standing next to Darien beside the Civic. He said a few words to Dean, who nodded, glanced at Sadhana then, crossing his arms across his chest, turned his back to her. Molly finally reached the group and from the looks of it, instructed the boys to clean up their mess and go inside. After a few more words, Father Dimitri followed Molly into her house.

“Did I miss something today?” Sadhana mused, aloud she realized when Janet shrugged.

“Dean took off for a bit, but I don’t know what he was doin’ since he bought car parts yesterday,” Cheyenne answered. 

“Really?” Sadhana drawled, watching as Darien looked over at them then said something to Dean. Dean nodded.

Sadhana stood, grabbed the monitor and walked over to the cars, passing Darien and Charles going in the opposite direction. She smiled and nodded. They nervously returned the greeting.

“Hey, Dean?” she asked when she reached him. She clipped the monitor to her jeans. Roshani’s soft snoring came through the speaker. “What’s going on?”

“Fixing Darien’s car,” he answered, his attention centered on the engine. “He’s run it into the ground. No common sense—“

“No, really,” Sadhana said. “What’s going on?”

Dean grabbed the rag draped over the side molding of the hood and wiped his hands. Slowly and carefully, Sadhana noticed, planning what he was going to tell her. She could almost visualize the words forming sentences in his brain. He turned and leaned his hip against the car. 

“Nothing’s going on,” he said, tossing the rag back on to the side molding. He frowned. “Party’s already planned, none of it is my idea, so don’t try to —“

Sadhana reached up and put her hand on his chest. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Dean scratched the back of his head, his brow furrowing. “I’m not sure — Ow!” he screamed when Sadhana twisted his nipple. “The hell?”

“Don’t keep things from me,” she said. “You went to Yvette’s funeral. Disappeared today and now Father Dimitri is plotting with Molly. Tell me or I’ll twist the other one.”

He smacked her hand away. “Sadhana, we didn’t want you to get upset.”

Hands out, palms up, she twirled around, surveying their surroundings. “Upset? Are you looking around this place?” She turned back to him, hands on her hips. “You’re seriously trying to shield me? My child, my four-year old child is being hunted by demons, Dean. They’re calling me Sarah Connor now and they’re not far off. I know none of this shit is going to stop even when you get these monsters and can go find Sam. I need, I _deserve_ to know what I’m up against. So, tell me. ”

Dean sighed. He turned around, closed the hood of Darien’s car. He ran over the scene in his mind: the pallor of the rookie cop standing guard outside the office; the tang of congealing blood mixed with Freon from the air conditioner; the sight of the flayed corpse staring sightless, terror etched on his frozen features. He filtered out the mental note he had made about the obvious escalation in the violence, excessive even for demons. He edited out Carlos's comment about how it looked as if the perpetrators were growing impatient with their inability to find their ultimate target.

With another sigh, he leaned against the car. “There was a suspicious death two nights ago. I went and saw the scene today with Andy and Carlos.” 

“Who was it?”

“The manager at your old complex, Nick Baronovsky.”

Sadhana leaned against the car. “Didn’t really know him. I think he took over about a month or two before. Was it demons?”

“Looked like it. Sulphur all ov—“

The sound of bedsprings creaking followed by a small whine erupted from the baby monitor. The whine grew in intensity until a hiccup and a sob burst out. Sadhana took off for the house at a sprint, Dean close on her heels. They raced through the door, disregarding the salt line Sadhana had laid down after dinner, and sped to the bedroom. Dean grabbed Sadhana before she burst into the room.

Castiel was already there, handing Roshani her notebook and box of crayons. 

“Let him handle it,” Dean whispered in Sadhana’s ear. 

“I should be—“

“No,” Dean interrupted. “He’s following in Semangelof’s footsteps. If she needs you, you’ll know.”

Seeing Sadhana and Dean, Castiel walked over to the door. “She is exceptionally upset, tonight,” he announced. “Perhaps there is something she eats before bed that might help? I’m afraid I’m unfamiliar—“

“We’ll go make some,” Dean started, then shrugged. “Hot chocolate?”

Sadhana sucked in her lower lip and chewed on it nervously. She looked between the two, who stood quietly waiting for her answer, and Roshani who was busy drawing whatever had woken her. “Fine,” she finally said. “But I want answers. And if she needs me—“

“Of course,” Castiel said. As Sadhana turned, he grabbed Dean’s shoulder. “You must speak with her.”

“Me?” Dean asked, watching as Sadhana turned into the kitchen. “Roshani asked to speak to me?”

“No, she needs to tell you what she saw.” Castiel saw the hesitation on Dean’s face. “It involves you, Dean. This vision wasn’t vague as usual.”

“Shit.”

“Indeed,” Castiel replied. “I’ll go speak with the mother. You let the prophet explain.”

“Right,” Dean said. “Oh, and Cas? Use their names.” 

He didn’t bother to wait for Castiel’s reaction, just entered the bedroom and brought one of the tiny white chairs to the side of the bed, praying it wouldn’t break when he sat on it. He waited while Roshani finished her artwork, chewing on her lower lip with each stroke of the crayon.

When she looked up, her eyes grew wide. “Where’s Casteel? I have to show my story to Casteel.”

“No can do,” Dean said and shook his head. “He’s in the kitchen speaking with your mom.”

“Uh oh,” Roshani said in a loud whisper. “Did he do something naughty?”

“He hasn’t met your mom yet. Not very good manners,” he said, scooting the chair closer. “Can I see what you’ve drawn?”

Roshani looked at the notebook then handed it to Dean. “It’s inbisble, but when the light is purple, see?, then you can see it.”

“Wow, princess, this is very good,” Dean said. “Where was it? Do you know?”

“It was big, and empty, but had really big chains allll over. Know what?” She took a breath. “It had black, icky gunk in it.”

“Black, icky gunk?” Dean repeated. His eyes narrowed. “Like the oil from Darien’s car?” Roshani nodded, once, sharply. “Okay, princess—“

“You were there,” Roshani whispered. “And you were scary.”

“In your vi— story?” Dean asked. Roshani nodded again, once. Her eyes filled with tears and she cast a sideways glance at the door. “Roshani,” he said, getting her attention. “Did you see anyone else?”

“No.” Her lip quivered and the tears began to spill. “I sawed you and you were angry and mean. I was scared.”

Dean grabbed tissues from the box on the nightstand. He put his finger under her chin and raised it so that she was looking at him. Wiping her nose, he said, “Roshani, listen to me. In your story, some bad thing must have hurt somebody and that makes me very angry. But I could never be angry like that with you, because you’ll never be a bad thing.”

“Even when I’m old?”

Dean started and checked his laughter. “Old? Like Molly?”

“No,” Roshani said, shaking her head emphatically. “Old like Darien. ‘Cause I sawed it once. I told it to mommy but she forgetted.”

He leaned forward, glanced at the door, then crooked his finger. “Tell you a secret?” Roshani scooted forward. “Your mom didn’t forget. She told me that story.” He sat up straight. “I’ll make you a deal, okay? If you think you’re going to do a bad thing, like in your stories, you tell me. Even if it’s after a bad dream. Even when you’re old like Darien.” He stuck out his hand. “You have to shake my hand and then it’s a deal.”

They shook hands.

~*~

Sadhana poured milk into the pan, then poured in a bit more. Pausing to listen to the voices in the hallway, unable to discern what they were saying, she turned on the burner and waited, her arms crossed over her chest, her mind tumbling in confusion. The hushed tones stopped but instead of following her instinct and running down the hall, she picked up a spoon and started to stir the milk. She heard Dean’s quiet questions followed by Roshani’s hesitant whisper. The milk started to bubble on the side of the pan; she turned to get mugs out of the cupboard.

And stifled a scream.

“I am Castiel,” he said. “I have startled you. That was not my intention.”

Sadhana pursed her lips and nodded. Taking deep breaths, she patted her chest in an effort to calm herself down, turned off the burner then pulled down four mugs.

“I have been coming—“

“Yes, I know,” Sadhana said, her voice quivering. She spooned some chocolate into the hot milk and stirred. “And I thank you for helping her through this, this, this crap.”

“She is an extraordinary child. It was an honour to be asked.”

Sadhana pulled out a bottle from above the stove and poured the liquid into three of the mugs. Pouring the chocolate into all four, she handed Castiel one. “It’s fortified.”

He nodded. “To help the prophet sleep. I understand.”

Sadhana waited until Castiel started sputtering to explain. “No. Hers is just milk and chocolate. The rest are fortified with rum. To help us cope.”

“I see,” he rasped. He watched as Sadhana busied herself with menial tasks. “Semangelof spoke very highly and fondly of you. I thought it might help you cope if you knew.”

Sadhana nodded. Two sets of three knocks came from the front door. “Can you get that? It’s probably Molly. I’ll get the holy water.”

“No need,” Castiel said as he opened the door. “She is not a demon.”

Molly poked her cane into Castiel’s chest. “Who the hell are you?”

“I am Castiel. Angel of the Lord.”

“My fat ass,” Molly said pushing him aside. She crossed the threshold and stormed across the room.

“He is,” Sadhana said, handing her a mug of hot chocolate. “It’s fortified.”

“Humph,” Molly replied. She handed Sadhana a manila folder. “All signed. Baby have another nightmare?”

“Hey, Molly,” Dean said as he came in with the notebook. He tossed it on the table. “Cas, Devil’s trap.”

Castiel leaned over and investigated the picture. “Why is it purple?”

Sadhana handed Dean a mug of chocolate. “Thanks,” he said. “She explained it was invisible unless the room was purple.”

“Black light?” Sadhana asked, peering over Dean’s shoulder at the notebook.

“Think so. Hey, Molly? Where’s your old cathouse?”

“Down Johnstown by the abandoned SucroCorp warehouse.”

“Any others around? SucroCorp, that are abandoned?”

“No,” Molly answered. “There’s another out past Dublin, but scumbags’re still in it.”

Dean pointed at the picture. “That’s it then. She said there were chains, nothing else.” He glanced at Sadhana before continuing. “She said I was angry, scary. What ever is coming is going to do something that is going to piss me off. It’ll be close by, then.”

“Agreed. Have you any of this paint?” Castiel asked.

“We’ll get some tomorrow.”

“I shall paint the trap then,” Castiel said and disappeared with a flap of wings.

~*~

Dean entered the room, manila folder in hand and noticed the mug of steaming coffee waiting for him on the dining table. Across from the mug, Sadhana sat in front of the laptop, drinking coffee laced with whatever flavoring she had plonked in it tonight. Vanilla, from the smell.

He sat at the table and started to say something, until Sadhana raised her forefinger. “I have to send this an hour ago.” She looked at her watch. “Shit. Two hours ago.”

Dean drank his coffee in silence and watched while she tapped on the keyboard, frowned, tapped some more, leaned in, squinted then banged on the keyboard one last time.

“Done!” she exclaimed with a smile. “Hey, if we’re still in this situation in a month, can you come with me to the office? I have to give a presentation on this thing.”

“Project’s finished?”

“Phase one will be and I have to report on it and then give projections for the next two phases. You won’t mind? It’s just—“

“I get it.” He lay his hand on the folder and slid it across the table. “And despite the fact that you put Father Dimitri ahead of me, I’ll go with you.”

She took the folder and put it on the counter behind her. “Well, it’s an obvious choice. Plan D. Plan A being that nothing happens, of course.”

“I know, but he’s a priest,” Dean said.

“With a stable home life, steady income, isn’t going to freak every time Ro spouts off apocalyptic nonsense.”

“I don’t freak.”

Sadhana smiled softly. “Oh, hush, Dean. Besides, Molly's ahead of you both.” She closed her laptop and pulled the black flash drive from it. “As a thank you for all you’ve done for us, I have something for you,” she said, holding it in the palm of her hand.

“I can think of more enjoyable ways to thank me,” Dean said, waggling his eyebrows. “Bigger, too.”

Sadhana laughed. “Oh, you poor, deluded man.” 

“How am I deluded?”

“Do you honestly think you’re calling the shots with me?”

“I’m not?”

“Just that one time, so don’t let it go to your head.” Off his smirk, she added. “Oh, shut up.” 

She rose, crossed to stand next to him and held up the flash drive. “This is for you, and you’ll still receive my undying gratitude later. It contains files on every Columbus in the US, there are sixteen of them, and the one in Ontario. There are two not on here, because one’s a ghost town and one’s a voting district with like sixteen people in it.”

“You’re trying to get rid of me,” he said, grabbing the waistband of her jeans and pulling her to him.

“No,” she said, putting her other hand on his chest. “Not at all. But face it, Sam isn’t here. It’s possible he’s in another Columbus, confused and waiting for you to show up.” 

Sadhana placed the flash drive in his hand, curling his fingers around it. “In each Columbus folder there are Triple-A directions on how to get there from here, maps of the towns, demographic information. For each, I’ve compiled a list of motels, hospitals, local law enforcement, shit like that.”

“I’m not leaving you to face this unprepared —“

“I knew you’d say something like that, so how about we take a road trip? To Columbus, Kentucky. Eight hour drive from here.” She rested her forehead against his. “I can see you’re thinking about it. About two hundred and fifty people living there, so if anyone’s seen your brother, we can find out easily.”

Dean shrugged. “Sounds doable. When can you go?” He pulled her closer, settled her on his lap. “And don’t say your birthday, because they worked hard on this not-surprise party.”

“Oh, fine,“ Sadhana said with a pout. “How about in two weeks, if nothing else comes up? We could catch a Civil War reenactment. It’ll be educational.”

Dean shook his head. “Nope. Don’t do educational.”

“Spoil sport. If Sam’s not there, and after my presentation, we can go to Columbus, Indiana. That’ll take longer since it’s a city of about forty thousand, but all the details are in the folder.”

Dean combed his fingers through her hair and curled his hand around her scalp. “You have this all planned out, don’t you?”

“Calling the shots,” she answered.

~*~

Tina Turner’s “What’s Love Got To Do With It” ended and merged with Prince’s “When Doves Cry” as Darien danced with Cheyenne and Roshani. Dean watched Sadhana lean forward to show Father Dimitri and Molly the necklace he had had a silversmith make for her birthday. The pendant was a fine silver replica of his anti-possession tattoo, the chain silver-plated iron. His choice had been easy the minute she had mentioned her pathological fear of needles. Everyone else who guarded Roshani had gotten tattoos.

Roshani ran up to her mother and yanked her to her feet. Dressed like a fairy, which made Dean shudder involuntarily when he thought of it, Roshani was now gyrating in the parking lot, dancing in the semi-dark to Springsteen. 

All in all, a good day, Dean thought. An unease settled on him as he wondered where Sam was and if he was safe. 

Sadhana bumped his arm and stood next to him, leaning against the Impala. “Thinking about Sam again?”

“Can’t help it,” Dean admitted.

“No one would ask otherwise,” she said. “Did I say thank you for the necklace?”

Dean chuckled. “A couple of times, and you’re welcome. Don’t take it off, though.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” She pointed at Darien. “What’s going on over there?”

At that moment, Darien ran over, his eyes the size of saucers. “Janet.”

“What about her?” Sadhana asked quietly.

Darien handed Dean his phone. “Message."

Dean read the text message. He moved Sadhana aside as he tossed the phone back to Darien. “Text her: Hide! Phone off! Dean’s coming.” As he pulled his keys out of his pocket, he searched for Molly. “Call Andy and Carlos,” he screamed over the music. “Send them to Block’s now!” 

“Sent,” Darien said.

“You stay here,” Dean ordered as he opened the car door. “Coordinate things. I’ll keep you in the loop.” He looked at Sadhana, who was now cradling a frightened Roshani. Dean slammed the door and turned the engine. “Ro, take your mom inside and make sure she stays there, okay?” Roshani nodded. 

The ten-minute drive to the restaurant seemed to take ages, despite driving the back roads and missing most of the traffic. He arrived at the scene, had his knife his hand and his gun at the ready when the detectives pulled up. Signalling them to follow, he rushed past the glass front and around to the back entrance.

“Who’s in there?” Carlos said as he reached Dean.

“Janet said Brenda and one other kid,” Dean answered. “She told Darien, ‘they’ so assume two or more demons.”

“Fucking awesome,” Andy whispered. “Beginning to really hate demons.”

Dean signalled the direction they would each take when Carlos opened the back service door. Guns poised, they fanned out across the kitchen, Dean in the lead. The stench of death and fear overwhelmed the residual scents of freshly baked breads. They made it as far as the dry goods’ storage when they found Brenda, lying in a pool of blood and excrement. Strips of flesh had been ripped off her body with careful precision, her eyes gouged out. She had obviously not told them what they had wanted: her tongue had been pulled from her mouth and her right leg torn from her body. She had been left to bleed out. 

While Carlos and Andy headed toward the cold storage and into the restaurant itself, Dean rounded the free standing prep area, toward the ovens. It was there that he saw the second victim; his nametag said he was “Mark”. The demons had somehow known he’d be of no use and he’d been quickly disposed of — his limbs at an awkward angle, his neck snapped. Acting on impulse, Dean took a photo, and in the flash he noticed the slimy trail and small piece of skin next to the body. He stepped gingerly over Mark and bent down to examine the flesh. His eyes followed the slime trail as it curved around the stainless steel table back toward the back door.

Dammit,” he exclaimed. He stood up and continued his sweep, looking for signs of Janet. As he finished the back end of the kitchen, he heard the commotion.

“Police!” he heard Andy scream. “Stop or I will shoot your fucking ass.”

Dean deserted his search and ran into the main room. Carlos and Andy had their guns pointed at a short, blond kid — seventeen, maybe eighteen years of age — who stood there trembling like a leaf. 

“Put your hands up,” Carlos said. “And keep ‘em there.”

“I’m just here to pick up my friend,” the kid said. “Works in the back.”

“Keep your fucking hands in the air, douche,” Andy said. “My finger’s itchy.”

“What’s your friend’s name?” Carlos asked, as Dean sided up to Andy. 

Dean stared at the kid, who flitted his gaze between the three. Putting his gun in his waistband, he pulled out Ruby’s knife. Andy cast him a sideways glance and noticed that he was taking out a small flask from his pocket.

“We asked what your friend’s name was,” Carlos reminded the kid. His gun still pointed at the blond head, he took a step closer.

“Stop, Carlos,” Dean said. “Don’t move.”

The kid looked at Dean and grimaced. “Guess who’s next, Winchester?” he asked with a cackle.

In a fluid movement, Dean flicked the contents of the flask on to the demon, then threw Ruby’s knife into his chest the minute the holy water made contact. WIth a flash of orange, the body erupted and disintegrated.

“Fuck me,” Andy said.

“Any more?” Carlos asked. “Did you find Janet?”

“No to both,” Dean replied, pulling Ruby’s knife out of what remained of the demon. He started back toward the kitchen, looking under counters as he went. “We have a different problem.”

Carlos and Andy followed him, knocking on cupboard doors as they walked. Dean stopped just inside the kitchen and scanned the area.

“Want to tell us what the ‘different problem’ is, before we call the ‘usual problem’ in?” Carlos asked.

“Cold storage,” Andy suggested. “Walk-in freezer’s on the far left. Refrigerator first.”

“Yeah,” Dean said and walked to the refrigerator. “Our other problem is the thing that killed Yvette. It’s loose.” He banged on the door: three knocks, twice. “And it’s changed shape.” The knocks were returned.

Dean opened the door and, situating himself between her and the bloody mess, he pulled Janet to him. “Don’t look,” he told her. “We’ll go straight into the restaurant.”

He led her to the closest chair and sat her in it. Andy brought her a glass of water. She plaintively looked at Dean, who was looking at her through his phone camera. 

He handed her his flask. “Not much in there. I had to use it,” he admitted.

“They killed Mark and Brenda,” she rasped. “I was putting stuff away and I heard them. I heard Mark shout something. And then all this screaming, that’s when I sent Dar the text.” She looked up. “I could hear Brenda—“

Dean bent down. “Did you get a look at them?”

“Not really. One was short and blond. A guy, I think. The other one had a woman’s voice.”

“Good,” Dean


	7. Chapter 7

**July 10, 2014**

 

“Carlos, tell me what’s going on. Please.”

Carlos looked up from the morning newspaper to see his wife of ten years, mother of his three children, the love of his life, staring angrily at him. “Lily, I can’t—”

“Discuss it,” she said. She crossed her arms over her chest and let him know that she was having none of it. “Stop stonewalling me. I call malarkey.”

Carlos rose and took her face in his hands. “Honey, no one says ‘malarkey’ any more.”

Lily put her hands over his. “Carlos.”

“Everything all set?”

“See? This is what I mean,” she said. “Yes, the hospital approved my leave. Mom says we can stay with her for as long as we need. We’ll head out for Deerfield this morning as soon as we’ve had breakfast.”

“No,” he said and kissed her forehead. “Go out for breakfast. I need you guys on the road as soon as possible.”

“And I need to know why.”

“Baby, you don’t. In all my years on the force, all my time in the Corps, this is the worst. Ever. I need you safe.”

“Fine,” she said with a heavy sigh. “What’d Andy want last night?”

“He’s coming over,” Carlos said, lifting his shoulders. “Wants to talk.”

Lily began piling the newspaper sections in a stack. “Case?”

“No. He wants to retire. I think he was drunk.”

“But Andy’s a teetotaller.”

Carlos shrugged and took his dishes into the kitchen. As he stacked his cup and plate and pressed the buttons to start the machine, a knock came at the front door. 

“I’ll get it. Gotta be Andy,” Lily called from the living room.

~*~

“I seriously don’t like this arrangement,” Dean said. “How long’s it take her to get ready?”

Sadhana rolled her eyes. “Man up, Dean. It’s just a car.”

“Yeah, but,” he said as he drummed his fingers on the roof of the dove grey Ford. “I feel naked in this thing.”

“Mommy! ‘Scuse me! Dean!” Roshani screamed as she emerged from the house, dressed head to toe in green and brown, a toy German Shepherd under her arm. “I’m a army solider! Casteel said so!”

Dean groaned quietly and mentally prepared himself. His fingers stopped drumming, he opened the back door for Roshani, but still no reaction. Roshani, beaming, scrambled into her car seat and buckled herself in. Dean closed the door and finally turned around.

“Soldier?” Sadhana said. Dean looked down at his boots. “Are you encouraging this?”

“Not on my life,” he answered.

Roshani’s window rolled down. “We’re gonna get me a pink dupple bag and big boots like Dean’s so’s I can be a army soldier.”

“I don’t think duffle bags come in pink, princess. Certainly not army ones,” Dean said. “And you told me you wanted light up sandals. Cheyenne says they’re on sale at Target.”

Sadhana tapped him on the arm. Dean turned around. “What did I tell you about giving in to her,” she whispered. “Do _not_ spoil her. I can’t afford to keep it up once you’re gone.”

“She said ‘please’, and,” Dean shrugged. “You know—”

“Batted her eyelashes. God, you are such a pushover. Roshani has my laptop with a couple of DVDs to keep her entertained for the drive. Don’t know why you can’t go to Cousin’s.”

“Been there,” he said. “Never been to Chillicothe. Besides, this will give you some time to pack for tomorrow without Ro under foot.”

“True,” Sadhana agreed. “Listen, Molly wants to barbecue tonight, to show Janet moral support. She went overboard at the store yesterday, got the gas canisters filled up for the grills. So, don’t overstuff my kid.”

Dean nodded and leaned inside the car. He winked at Roshani and mouthed, “watch this.”

“Hey, Sadhana?” He waited a second, then announced, “I’ll be back.”

“Oh. My. God,” she groaned as she walked off.

~*~

Andy rehearsed his speech as he drove to Carlos’s house. By the time he turned off Country Club Road and on to Betsy Drive, he felt confident that not only he had thought of every argument his partner would come up with, but the best possible retort. He used to loved police work, it gave him one hell of an adrenaline rush, but this had been too much. Criminals were one thing, but demons? Demons killing to get to little kids? Disgusting. And he saw no end to it.

He pulled his Chevy to a stop outside the brick split-level and moaned. Lily’s blue mini-van was still in the driveway, parked behind Carlos’s banged up, black Ford Focus. He should have thought to bring little Paulie a birthday present. Poor kid was going to have to spend his birthday at his grandparents’ because fucking, blood-thirsty demons were running rampant in Columbus. 

Out of habit, Andy pulled his sidearm out of the glove compartment and put it in his holster. He closed the car, activated the alarm and started up the sidewalk. It was then that he noticed the front door, unlocked and open. Pulling his gun out, he levelled it and nudged the door.

The house smelled of coffee, toast and blood. Carlos was on a chair between the living and dining rooms, facing the hallway. Bound and bleeding, his head lolled when he heard Andy enter the room.

“Gone,” he rasped, his voice bubbly. Tears and snot ran down his face. He nodded feebly toward the hall. “They’re all gone,” he whispered, breaking into sobs. “Too late.”

“Oh, fuck. Stop talking, man,” Andy said, as he untied his friend. He pulled out his phone and called for an ambulance and backup, while Carlos coughed and spit up too much blood for his liking. “Hold on, Carlos, ambulance is coming.”

“I didn’t tell —” Carlos started, then coughed again.

“I know. I don’t care,” Andy said. 

“I do,” Carlos wheezed. Every breath he took rattled and gurgled. “They’ll… her …like mine…Andy…don’t let them.”

Andy looked down the hallway and saw the trail of blood leading to the master bedroom. From the sounds in the distance, the ambulance was speeding down East Livingston. Too late for Lily, he figured, and from the lack of sounds, for the kids as well.

Stifling a curse, he turned back to Carlos. “Oh, god-fucking-damn it!” he screamed. 

The sirens were getting closer; probably on Country Club now. Rising, he gave his partner a farewell kiss on the head and started down the hall. The first door on the right was the playroom: untouched, with everything in its place just as Lily liked it to be. Silently, tears streaming unchecked down his face, he turned to the left, into Paulie’s room. The five-year old lay there on his Spiderman quilt, face up, arms akimbo, eyes staring lifelessly at the ceiling. His throat had been slit, but Andy could see very little blood on the sheets or carpet. Despite protocol, Andy closed Paulie’s eyes and left the room. 

He continued down the hall, his knees trembling with every movement. The next door on the left was the twins’ room. In there he found a similar scene: both in their cribs, side railings down, throats slit, blood drained, but no splatter. He closed their eyes and unsteadily crossed to the master bedroom.

Andy opened the door slowly, hoping irrationally that he would find Lily alive. Instead, he found her naked corpse on the bed, deep gashes cut into every limb, evidence that she had been raped as she bled to death. Sirens pulled up to the house as he stood frozen at the bedroom door, unwilling to enter the room and contaminate the scene, even though he knew there’d be no evidence. He thought of Carlos, bound and forced to listen as the slaughter took place. He heard the paramedics and cops enter the house, heard his own voice call out to them, heard their visceral reactions, before he ran to the bathroom and emptied his stomach.

~*~

Dean drove into the complex and parked the Ford next to the Impala. As soon as he cut the engine, Molly emerged from 3-B, followed closely by Cheyenne and a toddling Alex. Dean opened the trunk of the Impala and saw that Sadhana had already put his duffel in, more than a weekend’s worth of clean clothes folded neatly inside. Roshani’s backpack lay on the back seat: the orange and white cat she normally dragged around was peeking out of the top.

Father Dimitri pulled up in his car outside Molly’s unit. She waited while he parked the car then opened the door for him, signalling that Cheyenne should go on ahead.

“What’d ya buy, soldier?” she asked, settling Alex up on to her hip.

“Dean got some stuffs, and then we went to Target and I got new shoes! See?” Roshani turned her feet then jumped up and down. “They twinkle! And we buyed me a pink duffel.”

Cheyenne held out her hand. “Why don’t we take Alex and go show mommy? Maybe help her pack for your big trip?”

With a curt nod, Roshani handed Dean her stuffed dog, and grabbed Cheyenne’s hand. Dean tossed the toy in the backseat of the Impala next to the backpack. Out of the corner of his eye, he monitored Molly’s conversation with Father Dimitri while he transferred things from Sadhana’s car to his. 

“You all heading out tomorrow?” Darien asked. He and Charles were munching on Burger King fries, slurping on their drinks.

Dean backed out of the Impala. “Just for the weekend. You’ll keep an eye out, yeah?”

“Sure, sure,” Darien agreed. “Janet’s doin’ a bit better. Thanks again, man.”

“No problem,” Dean replied. He looked over the car’s roof to see Cheyenne, Alex still perched on her hip, jogging over with Roshani. Roshani was scanning the complex, looking very confused. Cheyenne’s face was a picture of pure panic.

“She’s not in the house,” she said when they reached them.

“What?” Dean asked, his voice louder than he had intended. 

Cheyenne just stared, her eyes large. Roshani’s lower lip quivered and her eyes filled with tears. Off to their left, they could see Andy Durnak’s brown Impala approaching, screeching to a halt just at the entrance to the complex. Andy, his clothing filthy and crumpled, made his way across the asphalt.

Molly hobbled over with Father Dimitri and Tony. “What’s wrong?”

“Where is she?” Dean asked, acid in his stomach rising.

“In the house, packing,” Molly answered. “Isn’t she?”

“Dean,” Andy interrupted. “We need to talk.”

“Not now, Andy,” Dean said. 

“She left with his partner,” Tony said. “I was talking with her when she was putting stuff in your car and he came up said something about a accident and they took off. ‘Bout an hour ago.”

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” Molly asked, quietly but angrily.

“It wasn’t Carlos,” Andy said. 

“It was,” Charles replied, nodding his agreement. “I saw ‘em, too.”

Andy grabbed Dean’s arm. “Dean, Carlos is dead,” he whispered, leaning forward. “This morning. Whole family. Ex-sanguinated.”

Dean stared at Molly as she jumped into action. “Cheyenne, take the kids. Charles, get Janet. You’re the six. Darien, you’re Dean’s back up.” She tossed a set of keys to Tony. “Tony, Father, we’re front line. Guns’re in my place. Go!”

Cheyenne grabbed Roshani and headed toward the small buildings where the tunnels’ entrances were. Tony sprinted to Molly’s house. Behind those remaining, the soft flap of wings was clearly audible.

“Sadhana is missing, Cas,” Dean informed him. 

“I know. I hear her.” Castiel looked around the lot. “This is, I believe, Roshani’s vision.”

“The warehouse?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

From the trunk of the Impala, Dean took out Ruby’s knife and his gun. He slammed the trunk closed and tossed his keys to Andy. “SucroCorp warehouse on Johnstown. Take Darien. Meet us there.” He turned to Castiel. “Take me there. Now!” he demanded.

~*~

“Dean,” Castiel said as Dean got his bearings. “I cannot proceed.”

“What?” Dean screamed in frustration. “Not the time, Cas!”

“My passage is barred. These are Enochian,” Castiel said, pointing around the outside wall. “Written in the blood of innocents. “

Dean felt the color drain from his face. In the fading light he could just make out the dark brownish-red, anti-angel sigils against the dirty grey brickwork.

“I will guide your friends when they arrive,” Castiel said. “She will be in an open room, just past the offices. You must hurry, Dean.”

With a nod, Dean entered the building, quickly traversing the front corridor. He heard a low mumble, followed by the echoes of a loud expletive. As he rounded the last corner, he heard the sigh and the soft whimper.

Bursting through the door to the warehouse floor, gun steady, Dean saw the dangling curtains of iron chains. “Really big chains allll over,” Roshani had said. From the far side of the huge expanse, the flash of reflecting light drew his attention. Following the twinkle, he fervently hoped Roshani’s vision hadn’t included the sight now in front of him: a naked, battered and broken Sadhana was bound to a Catherine Wheel, her limbs dangling at painful angles.

Dean ran across the room, tucking his gun into his waistband and pulling out Ruby’s knife. He could guess from the numerous welts and blossoming hematomas that her internal injuries were fatal. When he reached the Wheel, his heart sank and a sense of despair overcame him. He could tell from the sigils carved into her skin that Castiel would never be able to help her. 

“I’m here, Sadhana,” he said. “Going to cut you down.”

“Gone,” she whispered, so low he had to strain to hear her. “Roshani…”

“She’s safe,” Dean assured her, supporting her body while cutting the ropes. She let out moans as he worked, drowning out his repeated apologies. 

Headlights lit the wall to their right. “Carlos,” Sadhana said. “Not him.” 

“We know,” Dean answered, as he draped her arms over his neck. 

“Use Roshani.” Sadhana grimaced when Dean lifted her legs and cut the final bonds. “To take down king.”

Dean settled her in his lap after he lowered them both to the ground. He ignored Darien and Andy’s arrival, blocked out their shocked gasps and Andy’s profane growl. “King?” Dean repeated.

Every short, shallow breath brought tears to her eyes. “Hell. Conspirac—”

“Shit,” Dean muttered. “Take down Crowley? The King of Hell? Who? Did he say?”

Sadhana nodded and wet her lips. “Olivier. He said.” She tried to grab Dean’s shirt but didn’t have the strength. Her arm fell back down to her side, causing her to gasp in pain. After a few shallow breaths, she said, “Don’t let them. Have her. Kill her first.”

“They won’t touch her,” Dean promised, brushing the sweat-laden hair away from her face. 

“Plan D,” she whispered and smiled weakly. “My light.”

“I know.”

“Make sure,” Sadhana wheezed. “She knows.”

“She will,” Dean said, kissing her forehead. “I promise.”

Dean sat there, cradling her, as the life went out of her eyes. He heard Andy whisper an answer to Darien’s quiet question. Down the road, an explosion ripped through the night air, rattling the warehouse windows. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Darien almost lose his composure and Andy grow angrier as they realized where the blast came from. He heard the wail of sirens in the distance. Carefully, he arranged the silver pendant so that it was nestled safely between her breasts, then lifted her body and rose. He glanced at the floor, took ten steps to the north and gently placed her back on the ground.

While he stood, looking down at the broken figure at his feet, Andy covered Sadhana with his shirt. At that point Dean realized that the stains were most likely from the bodies of Carlos and his family. Darien came up to stand beside them.

“Darien,” Dean said, measuredly. “Go tell Castiel I’m going to summon Crowley. Bring the bottle of holy water, the bag of salt in the trunk and whatever he comes back with inside.”

“Dean,” Andy said in a controlled hush. 

Andy was barely able to stifle a jump backwards when Dean whirled on him, brandishing a knife. The blade pointed menacingly at his throat, Andy held his ground. 

“I’m going to gut the son of a bitch,” Dean growled. “If you have a problem with what you’re about to see, the way I’m going to do this, get the hell out. Now!”

Andy looked down at Sadhana, noticing for the first time what appeared to be a circle on the floor painted in faint yellowish-white. He followed the design around the room: the lines, the runes, the symbols. He glanced over at the Catherine Wheel, back at Dean. 

“Tell me what to do,” he said.

Dean nodded. “I need to move the Wheel into the middle of the trap. You get some of the chains, iron ones. Remember, it’s not Carlos, it’s the thing that murdered him. When he comes in, knock him out. We’ll bind him to the Wheel. Then you’ll step aside.”

Dean set up the Catherine Wheel where he wanted it, while Andy began to pull down the chains. 

“Got the stuff,” Darien said, holding a small duffel kit and a canvas shopping bag. 

“Duffel here,” Dean ordered, pointing to the ground near the Wheel. Darien tossed the bag at his feet then stepped back. “Pour the contents of the bag into the bowl, take it to that far corner and stay there. Light the bowl when I tell you. Do not move from that spot. No matter what.”

“Got it,” Darien said.

Dean pointed Andy to the far corner with a sense of urgency, then positioned himself in front of the main door, standing just outside the Devil’s Trap. Signalling for silence, they waited.

“Winchester,” the demon wearing Carlos’s skin announced as he entered the room. “I was hoping you’d show up. This is—”

Andy swung one of the lengths of chain he’d gathered and lassoed the demon around the neck, cutting off his airway. Using the force of his bodyweight, he wrangled him inside the Devil’s Trap, tossing Dean another length of chain. Together, they managed to drag the struggling demon to the Catherine Wheel and bind him to the spokes.

“You really think this will stop us?” he snarled.

Dean removed the crowbar from his duffel bag and smashed the shapeshifter’s legs. Straightening up, he replied, “No, but it’s a damned good start.” 

Slowly, purposefully, Dean took out the bottle of water and the bag of salt and placed them on the ground in front of the Wheel. In his peripheral vision, he saw Darien, his face blanched but expressionless, standing by the bowl; Andy was back toward the corner; Sadhana’s broken body lay on the ground less than three feet away. He heard the sirens continuing to wail; prayed that they were all safe; knew that this creature was responsible. He pulled out a silver knife from the duffel bag and, fingering the fuller, stood up. With a fluid movement he slashed the demon’s abdomen. Blood and slime oozed out of the gash.

“Who’s ‘us’?” Dean asked. He waited a beat, then gouged the demon in the side, ripping Carlos’s shirt off when he removed the knife. “We know about the conspiracy against Crowley. Just wondering how deep it goes.”

The demon remained silent, watching as Dean played with the knife point.

“I was going to make this really easy for you,” Dean said, pacing in front of the Wheel. “But fuck it. I’ve run out of patience. So, here’s your last chance. Tell me: how deep?” 

The demon’s eyes flicked to Sadhana’s body then back at Dean. “Seriously? You think—”

Dean didn’t hesitate before slicing a sliver of skin off the shapeshifter’s arm. While the demon growled in surprise, Dean grabbed a handful of salt and tossed it into the wound. He walked over to the bowl at Darien’s feet and ran the blade over his hand. 

“You’re boss isn’t your problem,” Dean explained as blood dripped into the bowl. Finished, he tore a strip of cloth off Carlos’s shirt and wrapped his wound. 

“Hell, Crowley isn’t your problem.” On the way back to the Wheel, he picked up the bottle and poured water on the blade. As the blade dripped, he dipped it into the bag of salt. 

“Your _real_ problem is me.” The silver blade coated in salt water, he stabbed the demon in the thigh, twisting when it struck bone. “Let me tick off the reasons why.”

“One: you’re wearing the skin of a friend.” Dean slid the blade of the knife down the left side of the demon’s face and flicked his wrist to lob off an earlobe. He leaned back, staying just out of arm’s reach. “The next reasons all have to deal with that woman,” he said, pointing the blade at Sadhana. “Do you know who she is?”

The demon glanced at Sadhana, then at Dean who was dousing the blade again. “Mother of the prophet who will lead Hell to regain its glory.”

Dean sneered. He leaned in and pointed the knife at the demon’s chest, just below the heart. Carving an “x” in his skin, Dean said, “Not enough. Keep trying.”

“Consort to angels,” the demon answered.

Dean splashed holy water in the demon’s face, causing it to erupt in a howl of pain. “Keep guessing.”

“A thorn in our side,” the demon spat out as Dean rinsed the knife again before dipping it into the salt. “An obstruction in our path to victory over Crowley.”

“Now we’re getting closer,” Dean said. “And yet, you still haven’t hit the nail.” Leaning forward, he dug the knife into the original wound and twisted.

The demon screamed in pain. Dean sprinkled salt on the blade and leaned in again, rubbing the salted blade against the demon’s skin, watching the red welts deepen in color. “I know you’re part of a conspiracy to steal the prophet from Crowley. I know who’s in charge,” he continued in a low whisper, “because that woman you beat, broke and carved up told me. And she was much more than the mother of the prophet. She was a friend — to angels, to the people in this room and to those you murdered. Even worse for you, my lover.”

“You know what?” Dean asked. He sliced another strip of flesh from the demon’s side and tossed it on to the ground. “I’m bored. Let’s ask Crowley what he makes of all this.”

He looked over at Darien and nodded. Darien lit a match and tossed it into the bowl. Reciting the incantation, Dean watched fear overtake the shapeshifter. Paying close attention to the dilations of the demon’s pupils, he knew the instant Crowley arrived.

“Make this fast. I’m busy,” Crowley said. He started when he surveyed the room. “Where’s Moose? I was hoping for the complete reunion package.”

“You’ve got a problem,” Dean said.

“Do I? Well, looks to me like you’ve taken care of that. Great knife skills, by the way. Good to see your time out of Hell hasn’t dulled your natural talents.”

“I want a deal.”

“Not a Crossroads Demon any more,” Crowley said, stepping forward until Dean raised a hand, then pointed at the ground. Crowley followed his direction. “Ah, clever. That one of mine?”

“A deal, Crowley.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Stuck in a loop.”

Dean rocked back and forth on his heels. “He’s one of yours. Sent to capture the prophet you’ve been looking for.”

“And is that,” Crowley pointed at Sadhana’s body. “Is that my prophet?”

“No,” Dean snapped. “The plan, which she helped foil, was to get and use the prophet to take over Hell and destroy you.” Dean walked back toward the Catherine Wheel. “How many prophets have you been through lately? Found the one foretold?”

Crowley mirrored Dean’s trajectory, keeping clear of the lines painted on the floor. He cast a wary eye toward Darien, who stood his ground, despite the fact he was visibly shaking. Crowley turned to face Dean, who had sliced another slab of skin off the shapeshifter. The slab landed at Crowley’s feet.

“How long has this moron been here,” Crowley demanded. “Where is here, anyway?”

“Gahanna, Ohio,” Dean answered. “Since mid-April. Two weeks before the one plotting the impending mutiny against you took off with Sam.”

“April?” Crowley screamed. “I’ve been dicked around for three months? By this clown?”

Dean looked between the now-panicked demon and Crowley. Flipping the knife, he walked over to the edge of the Devil’s Trap and scraped off an opening. Once at the Wheel, Crowley looked over the demon, leaned in to sniff him, then placed a hand on his forehead.

“Sorry to interrupt the mating ritual,” Dean said. “But I’ll give you this douche and the name of the one running the show.”

“I can get the name without you,” Crowley said as his fingers dug into the demon’s scalp. 

Dean waved his hand, dismissively. “Go ahead. You’re gonna find out he’s not afraid of you. You’re a pushover,” he said, mimicking Sadhana’s earlier jest.

Crowley smashed his fist into the demon’s face. “Who?” he demanded.

“We will destroy you,” the demon said, trying to smile menacingly, blood coating his teeth, running from his nose down his chin. “You will never know who is responsible. We are legion.”

Crowley closed his hand over the shapeshifter’s face. A bright red light burst from the demon’s eyes and mouth, as Crowley squeezed the life from him.

“There’s no excuse for plagiarism,” he offered by way of explanation. 

“Told ya,” Dean said. 

“I suppose you know who’s behind this?” Crowley asked, wiping his hands.

“Yes. Deal.”

“The name, for what?”

“Leave the prophet alone.”

Crowley looked at Dean, his brow furrowed in disbelief. “You’re joking.”

“By the time you torture it out of half of Hell, it could be over for you. You heard him.”

“How long?” Crowley said.

“The prophet’s lifetime.” Dean thought then added, “Natural lifetime.”

Crowley spun around and raised a finger. “Tell you what. Give me the name. If it pans out, I’ll leave your prophet alone for a while. If not, I take you, your friends here and this prophet.”

Dean inhaled deeply, glanced at Andy who arched an eyebrow. “I’m not kissing you.”

“Wrong type,” Crowley said. “Name?”

“Olivier,” Dean said.

Snarling, Crowley disappeared in a ring of fire.

~*~

Dean surveyed the charred and smoldering mess that had once been a housing complex, teeming with life. The facades of 3-B and Sadhana’s unit were all that remained standing. It was clear from the black smoke rising from behind the door, that nothing inside could be salvaged.

“Dean,” Andy said softly as he came to stand by his side. “They found Molly, a sawed-off in her hands.” He waited a few seconds, then added, “She was burned alive, but went down fighting.”

Dean spun around, anger and grief apparent on his face. “Anyone else?”

“Yeah,” Andy said with a heavy sigh. “Tony’s gone. Father Dimitri’s in the hospital. Third degree burns, and might lose an arm, if he lives.”

Dean watched the police and fire units assess the situation. “Where’s everyone else?”

“They haven’t found anyone else,” Andy said. ““Kid, it looks like they got caught in the explosion. Won’t know for a while. Some of the buildings are still too hot.”

“No, that’s not right,” Dean said. “Molly died defending this place, these people. She wouldn’t let anything get past her.” He let out a sharp whistle, then jerked his head when Darien glanced his way.

Darien jogged over. “Tony’s dead. Fucker roasted him, man.”

“I know. I’m sorry. Bastard’s dead and any others will suffer. Promise,” Dean said. He pointed toward what remained of the three smaller buildings, the deserted Wonder Bread outlet and its parking lot. “Charles would’ve stayed under, right?”

Darien nodded, swiping at the tears trickling down his cheeks. “Sure. Molly sent them down, remember? Them’s the drills we did. One of us guys would back ‘em up and bring the guns-n-shit. Defend down there. But the tunnels look gone.”

“You can still find the door?”

“Sure, sure,” Darien said and darted off toward the destroyed store.

Andy struggled to keep up as Dean and Darien scrambled over the debris. He watched then joined in, as both men tossed bricks and concrete to get into what had once been the back offices. There, after tossing aside tile-covered blocks of concrete and an old rusted baker’s rack, Darien took a plank of wood and pounded out three quick knocks, twice, on the tiling. The knocks were returned and as soon as the floor lifted enough, Darien put the plank under the crack to prop the door open.

“Fuck me sideways,” Andy muttered. “A panic room?”

“Tunnels lead from the complex to this room here,” Dean said holding out a hand to help Janet out. “They were expressly built for this scenario.” He watched Darien hug Janet, then turned back to hold out his hand. Cheyenne climbed out and stepped to the side. A squirmy Alex was lifted out and directed toward his mother, who grabbed him and hauled him on to her hip. Charles jumped out of the panic room, a sawed-off shot gun strapped to his back, and surveyed the scene.

“Where’s Roshani?” Dean asked quickly. 

“She won’t come out,” Cheyenne said softly. “She’s curled up in a corner, crying. Won’t let nobody touch her. I promised her—”

“Shit!” Dean said. “You didn’t promise her mother’d get her, did you?”

Tears pooled in her eyes as she realized what had happened. Janet let out a mournful moan and started to cry. “No,” Cheyenne said with a hoarse croak. “I said I’d send you down. She’s—?”

“Yes,” Dean said as he began to lower himself down into the panic room.

Dean climbed down the iron ladder, jumping to the ground when he reached the bottom. More like an underground bunker than Bobby’s safe room, this one had shelving stocked with canned goods, two bunk beds and a stock of sleeping bags. Sigils were painted around the walls, and on the wall opposite him surrounded a square painted in chalkboard paint. Roshani’s brand new duffel was in the corner next to a plastic tub of toys. She was scrunched in the corner behind one of the bunk beds.

“Roshani, time to get out of here,” Dean said as he squatted down on his haunches. He reached out but she curled further into herself, the hiccups melding into huge sobs. He sat down on the floor next to her and leaned against the wall. He closed his eyes, felt the energy drain out his body, then saw Sadhana’s lifeless body on the ground in front of him. His eyes snapped open.

Dean started to say something, paused, then faced the wall ahead of him again. “My mom used to say angels were watching over me, but I didn’t believe her until I was bigger. But you, you’re lucky because you’ve met them both. Cas is a little weird, and sometimes silly, but he watches over you, right?”

Roshani nodded.

Dean turned and opened his arms. Roshani climbed into his lap and buried her face in his shoulder. “I’m watching over you, too. Now, ready to leave this smelly room?”

~*~

Andy passed quickly through his deserted living room and put the bags of groceries in the kitchen. Life had changed dramatically in the past month: whereas in June he had worried about stocking up on steaks and barbecue meats, now his refrigerator held vegetables, fruits and milk. Deadlines were easily met because the house was usually quiet. Now the house being quiet meant tension and unease. Things had been going to go according to a set plan, which included living long enough to retire with a proverbial gold watch. Two days ago he had tendered his resignation after twenty-four years. Once he had held dreams of escaping to his father’s hunting cabin in Minnesota; today he had dreams of hunting down the bastards who had ruined his closest friends.

He put the food away, then pulled out the fresh bottle of Wild Turkey and two tumblers. He ignored the blinking red light on his phone and opened the door to the basement. Wanting to give them space of their own, Andy had set Dean and Roshani up downstairs: just off the office-slash-entertainment room with its wall-mounted plasma screen, oak pool table and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, was the two-bedroom in-law suite he’d had done up for his father when he’d first bought the place. 

He didn’t need to go past the kitchenette. Dean was sitting on the leather two-seater facing the stairwell and the hallway to the suite. The plasma was on ESPN but muted. Dean looked up briefly while he reassembled the Colt .45, gave Andy a curt nod. Bullets, both regular and silver, were set out meticulously on one of the cloths covering the coffee table. Two knives lay on the table next to the bullets: the silver one used to torture and the engraved one Andy noticed Dean favored. 

“Noticed you ran out,” Andy said, placing the bottle and glasses on the coffee table. “I’m gonna make coffee and food. You hungry?”

“No, thanks,” Dean answered, cracking the lid on the bottle. He lifted it toward Andy. 

“Just a finger.”

“Obviously not a hunter,” Dean said and poured the drinks. 

Andy nodded. He looked at the array of weaponry, a small part of the arsenal in the car sitting in his driveway, and thought over what he wanted to say carefully. “What happens now, Dean?”

“Now?” Dean repeated. He shrugged. 

“You haven’t heard from suit guy.”

“Yeah, that doesn’t bode well.” Dean wiped down the two knives and slid them in their sheaths before placing them gently in the dark green duffel. ”Been a week here, which is a few years down there.”

“I said it before, and I’ll say it again: you’re both welcome to stay here as long as you need. I got plenty of room.”

“Thanks, man,” Dean said, a smirk growing on his face. “How the hell could you afford this place on a cop’s salary?”

“Inferring what, exactly?” Andy said, rising from the couch. 

“Just askin’.”

Andy had heard the question before, had endured the teasing ever since he’d joined the force. It had gotten marginally worse when he was booted into homicide, until Carlos shut down all the wisecracks with his patented glare. Pulling two paperbacks from the shelves, he returned to the TV area and tossed them on top of the knives. Dean picked up the first book then looked up.

“No way.” He turned the paperback over. “You’re Andrew Kowalski?”

“Mom’s maiden name,” he answered pointing to the other book. “‘Stewart Germaine’ is a mix of my grandparents’ names.”

“Dude,” Dean said, picking up the second book. “I read _Ashes of Silk_. Not too shabby.”

“Thanks. Got another due out in Fall.” Andy sat back down and clasped his hands together. “Seriously, Dean. What’re you going to do with the kid?” 

Dean sighed and loaded the Colt with silver bullets. Andy sat in tense silence while Dean wiped the Colt down one last time.

“Sadhana had it all planned,” Dean finally said. “She worked out alternate arrangements for Ro’s care. All legal, and documented. It was one of her special projects. All mapped out. But then, she never really thought it’d come down to this.” Dean leaned back against the leather cushion. “Who else is there? Ro’s got no family. Pretty sure that isolation was part of the conspiracy. Molly’s dead. Father Dimitri will be in therapy for a helluva long time, learning how to do without his arm. Leaves me.” 

Andy pointed at the gun on the table. “We heard what she asked you.”

“I promised,” Dean said with a heavy sigh. “Promised the same damned thing about Sam to my dad. Getting really tired—”

Suddenly Dean grabbed the gun, slid it behind him in between the cushions and quickly downed the rest of the glass of whiskey. Andy looked around to see the source of his anxiety, if angels or demons had returned, and found nothing. But he’d learned in the past week that angels, one in particular, tended to just pop in suddenly, unannounced, whenever they pleased. This in-and-out shit was just one more thing making him grow old before his time.

Then he looked at the hallway. “Hey, kid,” he said, the adrenaline rush apparent in his voice. “Gave this old man a scare. Whatcha doin’?”

Roshani stood there, the light from the first bedroom framing her tiny figure, toy cat under one arm and dog under the other.

“Can’t sleep, princess?” Dean asked.

Roshani shook her head, slowly, without any of her usual energy. She watched Andy as he rose from the couch and went into the kitchenette. She kept her focus in that direction as he banged dishes, opened cupboards, closed the small refrigerator and made a dramatic demonstration of fixing something to eat.

“Princess,” Dean said softly. “It’s okay. Andy’s just noisy. Come sit down next to me.”

She stood there for what seemed like an hour to Dean, standing, staring into empty space. He wanted to ask her if she needed to draw something in her new notebook, but she pre-empted his question by crossing the room and climbing on to the couch. She settled herself next to him for a moment, then lay the toys where the weapons had been. With a little wiggle, she nestled in and lay her head on his lap. 

Andy came in with a glass of milk and half a sandwich. He looked at the scene, shook his head and placed the food next to the stuffed animals. In the past week he had watched Dean assume the parental role for Roshani, even though he was just as rattled and unsteady as she was. He made sure she ate, that she was clean, tried to get her to show interest in anything around her, but mostly, Dean made sure she knew he understood and that she was safe with him.

“Still not talking?”

“No, but it took me a while, too,” Dean admitted. He ran his hand down Roshani’s hair, gathering it into a ponytail and flipping it to one side. “When my mom died, I was four, just like you,” he said, rubbing her back. “The bad things were after us, too. I was really scared then, too. DIdn’t know what to say to make it all better. So, I didn’t say anything.” He leaned over and peeked at her, noticed she was staring into the hallway. “Sammy was just a baby, littler than Alex, so he wasn’t much help. And I couldn’t help my dad, because I didn’t have dreams like you do. But me and Sammy, we got the monster that hurt our mom. Just like I got the monster that hurt your mom, princess.” 

Andy watched as Roshani listened, her eyes fluttering as she fell back asleep, oblivious that Dean’s free hand had slid silently behind him, checking on the gun.

Catching Dean’s questioning look, he nodded. “I’m going to fetch us something to eat,” he announced.

Dean tracked Andy’s jog up the stairs. When he was certain Andy was out of earshot, he pulled the Colt back out of the couch cushions.

“Not like you to hide in the shadows,” he said, his voice slightly above a whisper.

“Just admiring the new digs. Quite a step up from your usual,” Crowley said as he emerged from the guest rooms. He glanced at the sleeping child and the gun in Dean’s hands. “ _That’s_ my prophet?”

Dean remained stoic, lifting the Colt until it was level with Roshani’s head.

“Take that as a ‘yes’,” Crowley answered, walking into the main room. “How old is she? Three? Four?” He waited for a reply then shrugged. “Play it your way.”

“Why are you here, exactly?”

Crowley stopped in front on the bookshelves. “You were right. Give you credit for weaselling it out of the shapeshifter.”

“I didn’t,” Dean said. Crowley turned around. “Her mother did. Where’s he now?”

Crowley pulled a book off the shelf and turned it over. “In the cage. Michael needs a plaything, otherwise he gets bored easily.” He put the book on the pool table. 

“We had a deal.”

“No way am I giving up on my prophet,” Crowley said, crossing back to stand by the couch.

Dean raised the gun again. “She can’t even spell cat, let alone translate your damned tablets.”

Crowley bent over to gaze at the sleeping child. “Probably right.” He straightened up, watched as Dean’s thumb hovered over the safety. “Tell you what: for the information you gave me, I’ll give you a dozen with the tyke.” He raised a finger before Dean could object. “Twelve years with instructions not to mess with her. Plus, intel on Skeletor.”

“Where is he?” Dean asked, lowering his thumb from the catch.

“Not ‘where’ but ‘when’. Olivier doesn’t shift vertically, but horizontally. He took Sam forward.”

“When?”

Crowley smirked. “Not giving away my entire hand. Deal or no deal?”

“You already got what you needed, so …” Dean looked down as Roshani sighed. “Twelve years. No moves on your part.”

“Are you deaf?”

“Deal.”

Crowley nodded and disappeared, just as Andy turned the corner on the stairs with two bowls of food. He looked around the room as Dean put the gun behind his back, into the cushions.

“Did I miss the excitement?” he asked, handing Dean a bowl of chilli.

“Yep,” Dean said, taking the bowl and leaning back in the sofa. He could feel the tension he’d been holding seep through to the cushions. “Smells good. You cook, too. Wanna get married?”

“F— No,” Andy said with a laugh. “Was once. She took me for a ride before some other sucker in Chicago knocked her up.”

“I hear ya.”

Roshani rolled on to her back and looked at Dean. He glanced down, smiled at her then winked.

She smiled back then returned to her side. “C-a-t,” she said softly.


	8. Chapter 8

**Lawrence, Kansas August 18, 2016**

She came into the house, flipping on the lights as she went through each room. She knew it was a waste of electricity, but the spirits lurking needed reminding that she was home. _Her_ home.

Walking through the kitchen, Missouri did one thing she knew she would come to regret. She grabbed a can of cat food and stepped on to the back porch. She emptied the can into the bowl she had first set down a month ago and sat back in the rocking chair to wait. Within seconds, a dusty grey cat pounced up the stairs and, after a hesitant “re-owr”, started to eat the food like there'd never be food in the bowl again. All the while, the cat kept its yellow eyes trained on her.

“Don’t you worry,” Missouri said. “I’m just going to sit here and collect my thoughts. You keep like that as if there’s no tomorrow.”

The cat stopped eating for a moment, stared at her, then returned to its task.

“Mind if I run something past you?” Missouri asked.

The cat’s ears twitched, but it kept its head down.

“Been doin’ some calling ‘round and checking,” she began, pausing to sip her ice tea. “Still can’t find a single trace of that boy anywhere. Been more than two years.”

The cat looked up and licked its mouth, savoring the last morsel. Somewhere, on the road in front of the house, a car backfired. The cat jumped, then froze, its eyes open wide and twice their normal size.

“Ain’t nothing,” Missouri said softly. She watched as the cat’s tail twitched angrily. “See? All calm now.”

The cat looked up at her, twitched its tail once more then stretched, arching its back before plopping down on the wooden floor.

“You make yourself right at home,” Missouri said as the cat began its post-meal wash. “As I was sayin’, I’ve looked where he should be and well,” she took another sip of tea, “he just ain’t any where. So, now, I’m just throwin’ this out to the wind, what if we’re looking in the wrong place and time? Considering the date on the envelope, what if he’s still not there yet?”

The cat rose, stretched again, then strolled over to the stairs. Turning to look at Missouri, it replied with another “rrre-owr” then hopped off the steps, dashing — tail upright — across the grassy lawn into the row of blueberry bushes at the bottom of the yard. 

“That’s what I thought,” Missouri said. She leaned back and closed her eyes, listening carefully, her expression vacillating between worry and relaxation.

Arching an eyebrow, she let out a “hmmmm” and rose from the rocking chair, taking her glass of tea inside. Stopping briefly at the refrigerator, she paused and inspected the purple envelope that had been in the drawer of her telephone table for almost two years. Addressed to “Sam who can’t remember” in archaic, flowery handwriting, it included instructions to deliver it to him by hand on Halloween.

Now all she had to do is find him and figure out how to convince him to come get the envelope.

“Oh, hush,” she said. “I’m working on it!” 

She whirled around, seconds before the phone rang, angry that someone dared to interrupt her concentration. She picked up the receiver and listened to the soft crackling of a cell phone being switched off speaker phone.

“You better start talkin’,” she said.

“Ms. Mossely?” the baritone asked. “Missouri Mossely?”

“You dialed the number, you tell me.”

The man had the audacity to laugh. “Dean Winchester said you were, how’d he put it? ‘Irascible’.”

“He did, did he?”

“There was a child present at the time,” the man explained. “I’m calling because we’re looking for the same person —”

“And who might that be?” she asked.

“He disappeared in 2014. You know who I mean.”

“Sam,” she whispered.

“Yes, ma’am. We seem to be criss-crossing our searches. I figured if we worked together, we can find him faster.” The man paused. “And get him back to his family all that much sooner.”

Missouri sat on the stool with the crewel-stitched pillow top, her favorite stool. 

“Ms. Mossely?”

“Go on. I’m listening.”

~*~

**Tonopah, Nevada October 25, 2016**

Sam sat in his usual booth: the farthest one in the back, by the kitchen door, the one that faced the rest of the restaurant. From here he could sit by himself and safely watch the comings and goings of Tonopah, as he had done almost daily since he checked out of the hospital. His first public excursion had been here, with the Deputy Sheriff, Dan, and his wife, Maggie, his ward nurse, back in May. He’d been nervous — he’d been secluded in the hospital since they found him wandering the desert — until they’d been shown to this booth. Kate had been his waitress, that day too, and known exactly what to say to put him at ease. 

Of course, it didn’t hurt that everyone already knew about the amnesiac found wandering the desert. Everyone who passed tried not to stare, to gawk, to look upon him with pity, but he understood it was just human nature and he grew to accept it. Rather, he grew to selectively tune out what he didn’t want to acknowledge. His state-appointed psychiatrist, and the Sheriff's wife, Dr. Benson claimed he was good at that: consciously ignoring the things that bothered him.

Little did she know that it all came back to haunt him nightly in his dreams.

From this booth he had arranged to move out of the dreaded Clown Motel on North Main. Dan had arranged for him to stay there, even fronted up two weeks’ rent, but from the moment Sam emerged from the patrol car, duffel bag of donated clothes over his shoulder, he knew he couldn’t stay. Having to walk into the motel, past three clowns, unsettled him as much as the constant nightmares of fire and pain. Mrs. Clarence had noticed him eating breakfast in the booth one morning and offered him her spare room. She was getting on, she told him, already mostly deaf, and needed someone to help her around the house and with Bessie the Basset Hound who had no sense of direction, decorum or smell.

In this booth, he had managed to write a public thank-you to those who had helped him, had adopted him. From that thank-you he scored a job fact checking at the newspaper. Mostly, he had to admit, he simply corrected Kevin Sandler’s atrocious writing. But it paid well enough that he could keep his appointments with his psychiatrist and buy Bessie treats to keep her in line and out of the neighbor's garbage. 

Whenever he sat here, everyone who was curious would come by and check on him. Which tended to be everyone from the Sheriff down to Kaaren, the candy striper. Which, he assumed, was what Brian, the Mayor's eldest son, was about to do. After he tried his pick up lines on the tourists, of course.

Sam put his tablet to sleep and stuffed it into his satchel before he started to dig into his steak and salad. He glanced out the front window and sighed. If he planned it right, he could get half the steak eaten before Alison meandered in: she would park her car in the lot, forage through her purse to find her lip gloss, put a thick layer on, check it in the mirror and then leave the car. He was on his third bite of the steak when Alison looked in the mirror and Brian sat across from him in the booth.

“Hey, Sammy,” Brian said. 

“Dude, it’s Sam,” he corrected. “Not Sammy.”

“You sure about that?” Brian teased. “Are you even sure you’re Sam?”

Sam glared at him as he chewed. 

“Dad’s having his annual Halloween barbecue on Sunday and I was informed you’re coming.”

The front door bells jingled and Alison strolled exuberantly across the room. She shared a joke with Kate, then waved at Sam, who smiled back. 

“So I’ve been told,” Sam said. He flicked his hand to the side to get Brian to scoot over. As Alison slid into the booth, he pulled a dog-eared paperback from his satchel and slid it across the table. “Thanks, Alison, but no more. That made my nightmares worse.”

“But you see what I was getting at, right?” she asked as Brian looked at the book and snorted in derision. “I mean, I know they’re fiction, duh, but maybe your wife read them and you did, too?”

Sam pointed at the book. “If I read any more of that _Croatoan_ , I’d throw something. It’s —”

“Crap. No Andrew Kowalski, that’s for sure,” Brian said. “His last one was his best. Way better than _Torch Song_. The killer actually —”

“Spoilers, you douche!” Alison screamed. “Some of us are waiting for you to send it to us so we can read it.”

“You ever read any Andrew Kowalski, Sammy?” Brian asked.

Sam glanced at the satchel on the bench next to him. “Might have read something by him.”

“He’s pretty good,” Alison remarked. “His best was _Shadows in Absentia_. Creeped me out. Speaking of creepy stalkers, you seen that guy around here again? The one who came when you first got out of the hospital.” She turned to Brian. “What was his name? He was dressed in Armani.”

Brian shrugged. “Oliver? Something like that.”

Alison nodded. “And then he showed up again in a couple weeks later, remember?”

“Nope,” Sam said. “But that was months ago—”

“Yeah, and Sammy has problems with memory.” 

“Haha,” Alison sneered. “I’m only asking because Susie told me some guy called the Sheriff’s last week, asking questions just like suit guy.”

“You know what?” Sam said suddenly. “I have a manuscript to fact check, and the author is going to email me about it, so—”

“Maybe he’s friends with suit guy,” Alison suggested.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Brian said. “This big shot author paying you?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Alison mocked. “Sam, you’re coming to the barbecue, right?”

“Not if I don’t get this manuscript read!”

Brian gently pushed Alison out of the booth. “Fine, we’re going. Remember! Four o’clock, Halloween!”

Sam waved his hand as they left. He surveyed the restaurant once more, nodding when Kate lifted the coffee pot, and pulled out his tablet. Kate stopped to talk with a tourist at the counter, a man of medium height, hair greying and cropped short. He pulled out an older iPad and turned it around to show Kate something. She nodded, pointed at the screen, then came over to Sam with the coffee pot.

“Lost tourist?”

“Nah,” she answered as she refilled his cup. She picked up his plate and shook her head. “You’re still not eating enough. No meat on them bones. That guy, he’s asking for the fastest way to Vegas. Some sort of convention or something. I’ll come back and check on you later, hon.”

Sam nodded and turned his attention back to the file labeled _Present Imperfect_. He’d received the email query about a week ago, via Agnes, to read over and fact-check a manuscript, the author soliciting his opinion. He wasn’t quite sure why the author had asked him — he wasn’t sure he’d even heard of Andrew Kowalski before Brian had read that novel. 

The PDF opened — ” _Present Imperfect_ , a novel by Andrew Kowalski, based on events of May–July 2014” — and Sam found his bookmark. The protagonist, some guy named Dean, had just carved the hell out of a demon and negotiated a deal with the Devil. Sam could feel his insides churning. Brian was going to be sorely disappointed to find that his beloved Andrew Kowalski was writing dross like that Carver Edlund had penned.

The chat function on Sam’s tablet pinged. Marking his place again, Sam switched programs.

_So? What do you think?_

_Good read._

_I see a ‘but’ in that … Don’t bother reading the ending, by the way._

_Why not?_

_It’s not finished. It should be done just after Halloween._

_So why send it to me?_

_Thought you might be interested. Tell you what. I’ll contact you, when it’s all over. See where you stand about the ending._

_Okay._

_Oh, the money’s in your account._

_Wait. How’d you do that?_

_I asked your boss to deposit it with your paycheck. See you later, Sam._

The chat window closed. Frustrated, Sam put the tablet down and looked up just in time to see the Vegas-bound man standing up. He threw some money on the counter, turned toward the back of the restaurant and saluted.

 

~*~

**Sioux Falls, South Dakota, October 30, 2016**

“Daddy! ‘Scuse me!” Roshani screamed, racing down the stairs. “Daddy! We have to go!”

“Go where?” Dean asked, looking up from the pages he had spread across the dining room table. Roshani stood at the base of the stairs, dressed in her white _gi_ , yellow-tipped belt in hand. What had once been a neat braid, seven or eight hours ago, now looked like an explosion at a chocolate factory.

“Daddy!” she cried in exasperation, stomping her foot to make her point. “My test! So’s I can get a real belt!”

“You have a real belt. In your hand,” he said. Dean bit down on his cheek when he saw the flash of frustration cross her face — a replica in miniature of her mother — before she realized he was teasing. “Besides, don’t we have to wait for someone else?”

“No, Aunt Jody’s meeting us at the dojo,” Roshani said as she crossed the living room. Folding her belt the way she’d been taught, she stood next to Dean and let him pull her to his side. She pointed at the quote Dean had been studying. “Hey, that says ‘Winchester’ and that says ‘Singer’. What’s that one say?”

“‘Salvage’.”

“This for the junk yard? Are you gonna sell more old stuff?”

“Getting some old stuff compacted so it can be melted down and reused. Guy gave me some figures Friday while you were at school.”

“Whatd’ya mean?” she asked.

“It means he’ll pay us. Now, move aside, short stuff, so I can go get ready. We only have an hour and a half before your test.” 

Roshani stepped back, then followed Dean to the stairs. As he climbed, she sat on the bottom and yelled, “I’m gonna wait here. Don’t you diddle dawdle, Daddy! That’s what Aunt Jody says you do!”

“I’ll bet she does. Go in the bathroom and fix your hair,” he yelled back. “You don’t want Sensei to call you on it.” Under his breath, he added, “Diddle dawdle, my ass.”

“Can we get pizza afterwards?” Roshani screamed.

Dean shook his head and chuckled as he entered his bedroom. He knew from experience that telling her she had requested hamburgers the night before was going to get him nothing but a headache. He could, he reasoned to himself, talk Jody into suggesting hamburgers for dinner. He also knew that ever since their arrival on the second anniversary of Sam’s disappearance, Jody and Roshani had become a formidable force vetoing anything he wanted to do: except when it came to the futures of Roshani and Singer Salvage.

True to Molly’s pronouncement that first day, Bobby had left the yard to both him and Sam. Bobby’s will had been written up before the Leviathans had tried to destroy them all, with the instructions that the property be handed over when they had decided they were ready to stay in one place. When Dean had arrived with Roshani in tow, Jody decided for him and handed him the deed and keys. She had spent a good month convincing Dean to settle down in Sioux Falls, to not force Roshani live the childhood he had, when in fact, that had been the reason he’d driven down from Columbus, North Dakota. Serendipity had it that one of the victims of March 2010 had passed away in April; her daughter was more than happy to rent out the house to them. Dean had given Roshani the task of decorating the room they’d set aside for Sam.

Finally clean and ready to play proud parent, Dean turned toward the door and stopped dead in his tracks. Roshani’s bucket of colored pencils had toppled from the far nightstand and scattered across the floor. He went to pick them up, making a mental note to warn her about how much it would hurt if someone slipped on her pencils, when he spied the open notebook. With a groan, he bent down, pulled it out from under the bed and saw the picture.

No longer drawing stick figures with blocks of color to show whether it was a good or bad prophecy, Roshani’s pictures had developed a complexity that continued to amaze him. Nevertheless, and even though she knew the alphabet, she wrote in her own shorthand, and he frequently had to ask for explanations. 

Tonight, however, he didn’t. On the page — they’d have to work on the backward “a” and “s” — she had written “Sam”, “Halloween” and “Misouri” with Thursday’s date.

“Roshani,” he called out as he descended the stairs, composing the interrogation in his mind.

He saw her at the dining room table, hair still a mess, drawing in another notebook.

“Just a minute, Daddy,” she said. “I have to draw this. It won’t go away.”

“Princess,” he said, putting a hand on hers and stopping the prophecy recording in its tracks. She frowned and looked at the notebook in his other hand, at the page she had drawn.

“Were you going to tell me about this?”

Roshani sucked her lower lip in and began to chew on it. Lifting one shoulder, she shrugged and played with the edge of the table. Tears coursed down her cheeks.

“This Halloween? As in tomorrow?” he asked.

“Dunno,” she mumbled. “Maybe.”

Dean leaned over and with his thumb on her chin, pulled her lip out from between her teeth. “Roshani. You saw all this. So, why did you keep it from me? I thought we had a deal.”

“I was scared,” she said quietly, turning her focus to the table. With her fingernail, she drew circles on the tabletop. “What if he says no? He could. You always say ‘a person can always say no.’ I don’t want you to be sad again.”

Dean lifted her chin and turned her to look at him. “Princess, that first night, you gave me two pictures. Remember?” Roshani nodded. “Sam and I are smiling in both of them. And didn’t you put one of them up in the spare bedroom?” She nodded again. “Then why would I be sad? It’s just matter of time, right?” Roshani lifted her shoulder. 

“Okay. Right,” Dean said and stood up. “Here’s the mission plan, soldier. Stage one, brush that hair. Stage two, yellow belt. Stage three, burgers.”

“But—”

“Oh ho, no. This page says you _owe_ me burgers. With fries.” He pointed to the bathroom, trying not to laugh as she stomped off. When she disappeared into the small room, he continued. “Stage three, _cheese_ burgers. At that point, we will inform Jody about our mission. Stage four, we return home to pack the duffels,” he paused as Roshani emerged from the bathroom, her hair brushed and pulled back. With a nod of approval, he held out his hand. When she put her hand in his, he continued, “Don’t think this gets you out of your ballet recital on Friday.”

“Ballet is stupid,” she murmured.

“Football players take ballet, it’s good for coordination, but that’s beside the point. Tomorrow morning at oh-seven-hundred we head out for Columbus, Missouri.”

Roshani jerked him to a halt. “No, Daddy. Missouri is a lady.”

~*~

Sam paid the cab driver and walked up the sidewalk to the small front porch of the two-story house. He looked again at the instructions he had scribbled on the back of the memo Agnes had taken for him. Even without the information he’d discovered on the Internet, he knew he had found the place: he could feel an electrical pulse vibrating quietly and steadily from within, surrounding the building like a blanket.

As he climbed the few steps, he tried to slow his heartbeat, to even out his breathing and dry his sweaty palms. More than any of the other strange dreams he’d had in the past months, this one scared him. 

He exhaled slowly, then took a deep breath and inhaled the scents of apples and cinnamon. As his raised his fist to knock, the screen door opened. 

“Mrs. Moseley, ma’am?”

She looked at him and smiled, her crow’s feet deepening as she gave him the once-over. On the trail from his boots back to his face, her expression changed from a warm welcome to a confused frown, then settled on soft sadness. “Says so right there,” she said, pointing to the pink slip in his hands. 

Sam’s mouth snapped open and closed while he struggled to find the words. 

“You look like a fish struggling for air,” Missouri said then turned around. “Come on into the living room, Sam. I made apple pie. I’ll bring it out. You need to put some meat on those bones.”

Sam ducked his head and pulled the screen door closed. Eyeing his way around the house, he found his way into the small front room and sat himself on the far end of the couch, near the bay window. He looked around the room, hoping to find something familiar, but instead came up with the usual vacuum.

Missouri placed the plate with the still warm pie in front of him. “I don’t normally serve food in here, brings in the ants,” she informed him with a gentle drawl, “but I figured you’ll be more comfortable.” She paused, watched his brows furrow and his lips purse. “You don’t remember ever being here, do you?” 

“No, ma’am.”

Missouri sighed. “That’s why you took me up on my invitation, isn’t it? To remember.”

Off her expression, he nodded. 

“Why don’t you tell me what you _do_ remember, and we’ll take it from there?”

“All I remember before Tonopah, Nevada is my name and I’m not sure of that. They told me I was found wandering the desert outside Columbus.” Sam frowned. 

“That’s horrible, Sam. How did you get there?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t even know what I was doing there.”

“Working?”

“Doubt it,” Sam smiled at her puzzled expression. “Columbus is a ghost town. There’s a borax mine nearby, but I don’t know anything about mines or mining. I mean, I know about borax, but that’s high school stuff.” He looked up at Missouri. “Isn’t it?”

“And cleaning, getting rid of unwanted pests. Maybe you weren’t there to mine?”

He shook his head again. “Nothing else in the area. Esmerelda County is all about the mines. Tonopah’s the biggest city around and it’s not big enough to really be a city.”

“Okay, let’s try something else. What do you remember about your family?”

Sam’s eyes started to well. “It’s not clear, I don’t remember my parents, but I think I lost my wife and son.”

“Wife and son?” Missouri’s head tilted and she frowned. “How?”

Swiping a hand across his face, Sam started then stopped a number of times before he could continue. “I dream about a fire, a blonde woman and a little boy. I know I love them both very much but suddenly there’s the fire and they’re gone. I wake up all alone and all I’m left with is a hole. A huge gaping hole that I can only fill with more nightmares.”

Missouri patted Sam on the arm. “Oh, honey. You’re not alone. Wait here. I’ve got something for you.” 

Sam watched as she rose and disappeared into another room. She returned two minutes later, carrying a purple envelope. Sitting back down in her chair, she handed him the envelope. 

“This came for you, with express instructions that I was suppose to give it to you today. We’ve been searching high and low ever since you vanished. And when Andy called to say where he’d found you … Well, my heart skipped many a beat.”

He looked at the stationery, the spidery handwriting that addressed the contents to “Sam who can’t remember”. He glanced up at Missouri, then turned it over. “To be opened on Halloween 2016,” he read.

“That’s right. Today,” Missouri said.

She watched as he opened the envelope with trembling hands then read the letter. He looked up at her then re-read it. 

“Are you sure about this?” he asked. “How —”

“Yes, Sam,” Missouri said. “I _am_ sure. Your family and I go way back. But nothing I tell you is going to reassure you more than you going to Perkins tomorrow.” She rose and wiped her hands on her apron. “Tell you what. Bring that pie you haven’t touched and come through to the back porch. I’ll bring you some coffee and we’ll discuss some of those memories of yours.”

~*~

“Sam who can't remember” brushed the hair out of his eyes as he reread the note requesting his presence at the Perkins restaurant in Lawrence, Kansas on Tuesday, November first at 11AM.

He’d been discovered wandering along Veteran’s Memorial Highway, just east of Columbus, Nevada with no identification and a severe case of retrograde amnesia. When no one had come forward to identify him, and he apparently had no record on file, he’d been left to his own devices. After five months of searching, he still had nothing more concrete than a first name. Flashes of memories had sent him scouring every one of the contiguous states, and even a few spots in Canada. Every direction he took drew him into a world from which he wanted to recoil, to never return, and yet that was exactly where he headed with every new journey. Even bi-monthly visits to his psychiatrist yielded nothing to fill the void. Then “Andrew Kowalski” sent him a manuscript, which led to a psychic contacting him. Ignoring all common sense, he abandoned everything he’d built up in the past five months and flew to Kansas.

Missouri had handed him a letter that had been sent to her two years earlier. While he’d read it that first time, she looked at him with a mixture of sadness and secrecy, not with the pity he'd grown sick of. Over coffee and apple pie, watching a stray cat dart in and out of the bushes at the bottom of the backyard, she had corrected some of his false memories — it wasn’t his wife and son he saw in his dreams trapped in a burning house; he had never entered Stanford Law; the monsters in his dreams weren’t imaginary — but hadn’t provided him with anything substantial with which to fill the gaping holes her corrections had left. 

All she said was, “Go, meet them, and everything will start to come back. Trust me.”

He spent last night locked in his room, avoiding a group of drunken college students silly enough to knock on motel doors. This morning, having nothing to lose, and possibly everything to gain, Sam took a cab to the restaurant.

He took in the scene: Halloween decorations still hanging from the ceiling, scattered on the tables; families with small children buzzing from too much sugar; solitary diners devoring their blueberry pancakes as they poured over the newspaper. He scoured the large room, looking for a familiar face, straining to hear a familiar voice. 

“Table for one?” the waitress — Debi carved into her name tag — asked. “Or at the counter?”

Sam started to answer when he heard a squeal break through the din of conversations. Quickly surveying the scene, it was easy to track down the source: a small, young girl, maybe five years of age, two long, chocolate brown ponytails threatening to land in her food as she continued to squeal and laugh during a half-hearted attempt to pull her hand away from her father who pretended to eat the fries she was clutching. Sam continued to watch as she successfully yanked her hand free and shoved the stolen fries into her mouth, grinning impishly. Her father curved his arm around his plate and moved it away, shaking his head as he quickly tossed a few ketchup-laden fries into his own mouth, then cast the thief a glance before he turned his attention back to the newspaper. The little girl chuckled and went back to coloring, her feet swinging back and forth under the table.

“Sir?” Debi said.

“Uh,” Sam replied then turned to her. “The little girl and—”

“Should all be in school,” Debi interrupted, handing him a menu. “Enjoy your meal.”

Inexplicably drawn to the pair, Sam made his way toward them. The little girl stared up at the ceiling and grinned again. Her feet began to swing to a more enthusiastic tempo, no longer in sync, as her hand slid across the table toward the remaining French fries. Without looking up from the page, her father’s hand stopped hers in its path with a mock slap, and set the child laughing again.

Sam’s breath caught in his throat when he reached the edge of the table. Passages from _Present Imperfect_ flashed in front of him. The descriptions of Agents McGuinn and Crosby. The timing. The demons … 

“Hey, Dean.”

Hand still on top of the little girl’s, Dean’s head snapped up, his mouth agape and eyes wide. “Sam?” He jumped out of the chair and pulled Sam into a bear hug. “Holy shit! Sammy!” 

Sam leaned into the embrace and closed his eyes, afraid that if he didn’t, it would turn out to be a dream, a season of _Dallas_. He finally opened his eyes and whispered, “She’s stealing your fries again.”

“I know,” Dean said, releasing Sam from the hug. “Takes after you, always stealing my food.” He held Sam at arms’ length and looked him from head to toe. “Dude, you haven’t changed a bit.”

“I wouldn’t know. Sorry,” Sam said, chuckling. “Hope you didn’t count on eating those.”

Dean turned around and tried to appear stern. “You, princess, stole my fries. Keep it up and no pie.” He put one hand around Sam’s shoulder, the other out toward the mischievous girl. “Sam, this is Roshani. Roshani, this is Sam, _our_ Sammy. Sit,” he said, pushing Sam toward the chair across from his. “God, ‘bout time.”

Roshani stared at Sam as he sat down. “You’re big. Is that _really_ ‘cause you ate your vegetables when you were little? That’s what Miss Molly said.”

Sam’s forehead furrowed in confusion, unsure if he had met this Molly or not. “Psychic,” Dean explained. “You missed that one.”

Sam nodded. “Did she say that?” He leaned toward Roshani. “Yes, I ate my vegetables. Still do. I bet Dean used to say they were food for rabbits.” 

“I like rabbits. Can we get a rabbit, Daddy?”

“No,” Dean answered, narrowing his eyes at Sam. “You know that, princess.”

“Oh, fine,” she said, jutting out her lower lip She swiped a path through the ketchup on her plate with her finger, licking it noisily. 

“Daddy?” Sam whispered, shaking his head. “I’m sorry I don’t—”

Dean waved his concern away. “I looked for you, Sammy,” Dean said softly. “All over. For two years. Never stopped. Where the hell have you been?”

“Nevada,” Sam answered, watching Roshani finish the ketchup on her plate. “Sorry, Dean, I’ve got amnesia. I mean, I-I-I remember you, but what do you mean two years?”

“Amnesia,” Dean repeated then let out a slow whistle. “What _do_ you remember?”

Sam shook his head. He wasn’t ready to tell anyone else about his dreams. “Until just now, I wasn’t even a hundred percent about my name,” he said, pausing while Debi filled his coffee cup. “I read about what happened in a manuscript that Andrew Kow—”

“Wait!” Dean said. “Andy sent you a manuscript? About what happened?”

“Yes,” Sam said, nodding. “He said it was based on things that happened two years ago.”

Roshani looked up at the waitress, smiled and batted her eyelashes. “May I have banana cream pie? It has fruit in it.”

“Make that three,” Dean added then waited until Debi walked off. “But you wouldn’t have been in it much and if you couldn't remember your name, how’d you find us? I haven’t spoken to Andy in a month.” 

Sam reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the piece of paper. “Missouri Moseley called me. Said she knew who I was and when I got here, she handed me this.”

Dean took the note and read it over, his expression clouding over.

“What’s that, Daddy?” Roshani asked.

“A note,” Dean answered still staring at it. He leaned back as Debi placed the three plates on the table. “Sadhana sent this to you, Sam?”

Roshani leaned over and looked at the purple stationery. She nodded curtly and picked up her fork. “Oh, I forgot about that. Mommy wrote that ‘fore you came.”

“She did?” Dean asked in a hushed tone. He handed it back to Sam. “She knew about today, too, Ro?”

“I think so. Kinda. Look, she wrote it on her prettiest, most special paper. It was lost in the fire.”

“I’m really confused, Dean,” Sam said, scratching his forehead. “How could your—”

“One thing at a time, Sam,” Dean said softly. “First, let’s get you home. Then we’ll have time to explain it all.”

“No, no,” Roshani said, her ponytails swinging. “First we have to give your mommy flowers, so she knows you were here.” Suddenly, Roshani put her fork down, then frowned. She grabbed the crayons and began to draw feverishly in a nearby notebook. “Daddy, what’s a shtriga?”

Sam glanced at Dean, just before he saw the flash: a hospital, parents crying, a handprint with extraordinarily long fingers. He could sense the creature nearing, feeding off him and then saw a younger Dean standing with a sawed-off shotgun as the creature disintegrated.

“Sam?” Dean asked. “You okay?”

“I know what a shtriga is, don’t I?” He leaned forward and whispered. “And how to kill it?”

“You used to, yeah,” Dean answered. “But hang on to that thought.” He turned to Roshani, and putting a finger under her chin, forced her to look at him. “Where and when, princess?”

“It’s a bad thing?” she asked and Dean nodded. “It’s in Nashville. Where the singers Molly liked are, right?”

“Very bad, princess, and yes, Nashville,” Dean answered and pulled his cell out of his pocket. “When? Did you see?”

Roshani looked at her drawing, at the orange and brown on the page, then glanced up. “I think now, ‘cause the leaves are falling.”

“Okay. You two stay here,” Dean said as he rose, quickly scrolling through his contact list. “I’m gonna make this call then pay the bill, got it?”

Sam watched, nervously, as Dean left the restaurant and went to pace in front of a big, old Chevrolet. He spoke into the phone, other hand in his jeans’ pocket, avoiding people as they stepped up onto the curb and made their way to the entrance. 

“He’s calling Father Dimitri,” Roshani explained. “He got moved to Chattanooga. That’s a funny name, like a train. He’s nice, but very sad because monsters hurt his friends and took his arm.” 

Under the table, next to his legs, Sam could feel her feet start to swing again. He watched as she thumbed through the notebook, a unicorn rampant on the pink cover. She came to one page, a picture of two people standing in front of a big, black car — just like the one outside — parked in front of a blue two-story house. Yellow, purple, green and orange dotted the bottom of the house. Chewing on her lower lip, she ripped the page out and held it out to him.

“I drew this for you,” she said, thrusting the paper toward him. “See? It’s you and Daddy in front of ‘Baby’.”

“His car,” Sam said as he took the piece of paper. He looked at it and then at her, remembering the descriptions of her dreams and drawings. “June thirtieth? Is that when you drew this?”

“Yep,” she said, nodding once sharply. “That’s when I saw it. But it’s not gonna happen for a while. See? There are flowers in front of the house. Daddy hasn’t started rebuilding that part yet, ‘cause he’s going to be forever clearing up all the burnt out shit.”

Dean stopped at the head of the table. “Did you just say ‘shit’, missy?”

“Yeah, huh,” Roshani answered, a slight blush creeping across her cheeks. “That’s what you told Aunt Jody. You said—”

“I know what I said. Doesn’t mean you can repeat it.”

“There really was a fire?” Sam asked, flashes of fire, a child, a woman on the ceiling. He could feel his heart start to race, pound out of his chest, felt the beads of sweat form on his forehead. “My wife. I saw her. There was a fire and she bled—”

“Whoa, Sam. Whoa.” Dean sat back down at the table, grabbing Sam’s arm. “Look at me. Deep breaths, dude. Ro’s talking about a different fire. You’ve never been married. No one was hurt in this one, just damage to Bobby’s junkyard. Keep breathing.” 

“I’m sorry,” Roshani said in a quiet voice. Dean leaned over and with his free hand, smoothed her hair.

Sam glanced at the little girl, her face crestfallen, tears starting to spill down her cheeks. He looked at his brother, concern etched in his expression. “No wife? But there was a fire?”

“Yeah, Sam. Sorry,” Dean said, letting go of Sam’s hand. “Jess. Over ten years ago. And Mom when you were a baby.” 

“Here. In Lawrence. That’s why the flowers,” Sam said. “Do you come here every year? Did we—”

“No,” Dean said, as he wiped the tears from Roshani’s face. “We’re here to take you home, Sam.”

The End — Not


End file.
